


Dany by the Docks

by starkyd7



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: AU, F/F, Femslash, Stargaryen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-22
Updated: 2016-03-21
Packaged: 2018-04-27 12:53:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 25
Words: 84,780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5049346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starkyd7/pseuds/starkyd7
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU. After surviving an illness that nearly took his life, Willem Darry continued to care for the young Targaryen exiles he smuggled across the Narrow Sea, working in the shadows towards a Targaryen restoration. Westeros continues to suffer after the War of Five Kings, while its best hope for peace has spent her entire life sheltered by a house with a red door. =DISCONTINUED=</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Seafarer

**AN: A new fic, a new 'verse. Here's hoping that those who stuck by me through Allegiance are up for another adventure...**

 

**..........  
**

 

The seafarer strode down the gangplank of _The Lonely Wind_ a little older, and more than a little wiser.

For two and a half months she’d lived in a hammock on the sea, sailing from the Braavosian Coastlands all the way to the Orange Shore of Volantis and then back again. Under the command of captain Terys Gyleno, a tall, stern man with a shock of white hair that stood in stark contrast to the sun-darkened leather of his skin, she’d learned nautical mapping and navigation, how to steer a vessel true in the pitch dark of a moonless sky, and even how to honor a man lost to the sea.

Nordric Toryn, the Quartermaster, taught her how to keep the peace amongst a group of rowdy, restless men who loved the sea too much to ever live away from it, yet continually dreamt of the pleasures of land when they were on it. He taught her how to catch men siphoning rum from sealed barrels, how to manage inventory between ports, and the laws of justice that ruled every wooden island that was a ship.

From the purser Josso Quence, she’d come to understand the fine points of trader ship economics. He managed all accounts and payroll meticulously in a leather-bound ledger that was, to him, as sacred as the Seven-Pointed Star to a High Septon. Not one coin passed without accounting, whether it be a small note indicating a man had been paid an advance of his wage, or an angry scrawl detailing an inspection fee that amounted to no more than a shameless bribe. He made sums magic, shifting them around until what disappeared in one column was reclaimed in another, until they all balanced once again.

With the sailors, she’d learned how to tie at least thirty different types of knots, how to quickly climb to the top of rigging beneath billowing purple sails, and how to belt out a half-dozen bawdy sea shanties that made ladies blush and whores beckon whenever they’d pull in to harbor.

And finally, with the fishermen, she’d learned the nimble touch required for line-knots and net repair, and the patience to watch a thick strand tremble _just so_ before arcing up the wooden pole and hauling in supper. She was instructed on how to craft crabbing cages, weighting them down with rocks and setting them out in mornings when the ship was anchored, and then hauling them back up come sunset. Beyond this, during the few days of shore leave they’d had throughout the voyage, she’d rolled up her pant legs and stood in shallow lagoons under the blazing sun until she could catch quick, darting silver fish with her bare hands.

The sea had proved a fine mistress, but she was glad to be home – for that’s what Braavos had become, as much as anything else.

It had been three years since she’d first passed under the great Titan, running to the only place in the world she had left to go. Though she hated to admit it, she’d come as little more than a beggar to the House of Black and White, with nothing to her name but a slender sword named Needle, a strange iron coin, and a ready-made list of death to offer the Many-Faced God who held sway there.

That was when she’d still had a name, a label for the walking, talking, raging cistern of bitterness and hate that she’d been.

Things were different, now.

Once _The Lonely Wind_ was far behind her, she sidestepped into an alley and removed the soft, freckle-dusted face she’d been wearing throughout the voyage. That journey was done, and it was time for Dael the Seafarer to vanish like ashes upon the water. If any of the crew thought to search her out in the milling crowd of the dockside market, they’d find no trace of the ghoul they’d broken bread with – only the blank face of an androgynous former northerner that bore a long scar that curved from the edge of her forehead down around her cheek and jaw.

She left the alley and fell in with the throng that huddled around the vendor stalls. A strange cart had pulled up to join the familiar merchants today; a balding, rotund man in bright silks speaking in a poorly contrived Meereenese accent, called out to the masses claiming to have arcane elixirs from the Shadowland of Asshai. She fought the urge to sigh. This would be glamoured river water at best, or berry-dyed lagoon silt at worst. If the water within the contoured decanters was brackish, the only ‘magical’ result the concoction would provide anyone would be an extended trip to the nearest privy chamber.

Unsurprised at the gullibility of the rabble that were counting out their coins for the charlatan, she made her way past fishmongers, whores, and even a child-thief who was bold enough to sidle up beside her before recognizing the scar on her face and scampering off again, to a humble stall a few yards away from the ferrymen. The owner of the stall, Merlayne, was a middle-aged woman who somehow managed to procure fruit to sell every day of the year to suit all preferences, whether it be fresh or canned or even candied.

“You’ve been gone a while, luv.” Merlayne said to her nameless customer. “Was wonderin’ if I was goin’ to see you again. Same as usual?”

No One nodded, placing a few square coins into the woman’s weathered hand.

“Thought as much. ‘Ere ya go.” Merlayne reached behind her and seized a pear, roasted in honey and spices and wrapped in in a delicate waxed parchment.

The hint of a grin in response, and then the ghoul was headed towards the ferrymen’s skiffs.

She slowed her pace, unwrapping her treat and then slivering it with her fingerknife. She popped a wedge into her mouth, and let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. After ten weeks of salted jerky, hardtack, and pickled cabbage with some occasional fish or crab, the broiled fruit tasted beyond decadent. She felt a sugared rush through her veins after the third bite, and decided it was entirely worth it.

Her snack was nothing but a sweet memory by the time she’d reached a skiff and tossed the ferryman a coin to row her through the canals to the House of Black and White. The oarsman gave a respectful bow and, once she boarded, set himself to the task of skimming her back to the temple.

When they pulled up beside the dichotomous House, she tossed him another titan coin. “Wait here a while for me, and there’s two more in it for you.” She said quietly.

Not waiting to gauge his reaction, No One slung her satchel over her shoulder and climbed up the steps that led to death’s sanctuary, and opened the heavy doors.

Grey eyes quickly adjusted to the dim lighting that served in the main chamber. She heard without seeing the quiet swipes of a thick, damp cloth on stone behind the statue of the Hooded Wayfarer, and knew that an acolyte was tending to the humble duty that was once her own.

“ _Valar morghulis_.” A soft voice spoke from the shadows beyond the fountain of mercy.

 _“Valar dohaeris.”_ She answered.

A rare smile from the Kindly Man followed. “So The Gentleman has returned to us, now able to serve the Many-Faced God in lands so distant they believe they are outside of his dominion.”

The No One commonly known as The Gentleman, a moniker bestowed upon her by the Kindly Man after her time in service to a wealthy courtesan, nodded. “Where does the Many-Faced God will me to go?”

“Many places. But none of them today.”

“I will go to see Qarro then, if he is not in need of my services tonight.”

“Just so.” The Kindly Man said in a perfect imitation of the First Sword of Braavos. “Now that you have learned how to navigate the water, it is back to dancing over it.”

The Gentleman bowed her head as he dismissed her, and climbed down the great stone steps that led to the sleeping cells. Taking one of the flickering candles that the acolytes always kept lit, she walked past the humble alcoves of her murderous associates until she finally reached her own.

A straw mattress on a stone slab carved directly into the rocky knoll the House sat atop served as a bed. A small shelf chiseled from within the same hillock protruded to the top left of it, as good a place to set a candle as any. No One set it down, and unpacked the few belongings she was permitted from her satchel: some shirts, trousers, a belt, spare pair of boots, some sharpening oil, a whetstone, and three spare blades in soft leather sheathes.

All tools with which to serve.

She folded her clothing and stacked it under her stony bunk along with her blades and maintenance gear. She’d launder it outside later.

As settled as she ever was anymore, she lifted the candle again and made her way through the sterile catacombs that served as sanctuary for the living servants of the god of death, returning the unsteady light from whence it came. She climbed back up the winding stairs, and out of the temple foyer.

The ferryman had not waited. _Another little man afraid of the ghouls, then_.

Although no Braavosi would ever dare break the law of _valar dohaeris_ upon presentation of a marked iron coin, there were some who resented its existence. Shrouded in mystery since the founding of the great free city, the House of Black and White and those who served within it were viewed by some of the populace as macabre, or even outright criminal. Religions that based their doctrine on the beauty and value of every life regarded worship of the Many-Faced God with outspoken contempt, calling those who served him little more than empty, soulless ‘ghouls’.

The epithet stuck.

Even though fear kept most from ever speaking the term aloud, it was still used by those who found Faceless Men and their acolytes offensive.

It was used more and more often, these days.

Sighing, she started towards the Sealord’s Palace.

 

**……..**

 

“Little Death, you have returned.” Qarro Volentin said with a smile.

No One cocked an eyebrow. “I _have_ grown, you know. I’m near as tall as you now.”

He laughed, and started to walk with her to the Titan’s Fountain. “It is so. But indulge me just the same. ‘Almost as tall as me Death’ truly does not have the same ring to it.”

“Fair enough.” She conceded with a good-natured chuckle.

“So,” he said, glancing over at her tanned forearms beneath her rolled up sleeves, “wherever you have been, it was under a much friendlier sun than we see here in Braavos.”

It was always the same game, between her and the First Sword. Whenever she would leave for an extended period on a mission, he would always try to guess where she had been. She would never tell him of course, even if he managed to guess right, and yet he pressed on every time just the same.

“It was very hot, most days.” She granted.

“Indeed. And your hands, I noticed that they are rougher than usual. You have been doing much work with them, and not of the water-dancing variety. I often see these kinds of hands on dockworkers or sailors. This place that was under the friendly sun – you sailed there, yes?

“I spent some time on a ship.” She answered vaguely.

He chuckled as they stopped in front of the great fountain. “Was it Tyrosh?” he asked, brandishing his rapier and turning to a perfect water dancing stance.

“It wasn’t Tyrosh.” She answered, drawing her own blade and turning.

Qarro lunged forward, thrusting towards her chest and then feinting a slice to her shoulder as she parried. “Myr, then?”

She dodged his steel and arced her own towards his neck. “Not Myr.”

A few elegant flicks of his wrist and the tip of his blade made to piece her navel, bicep and shoulder. She blocked each attempt, then countered with two swift cuts aimed for each of his cheeks. He stepped back in the nick of time, denying her first blood. “You’re getting faster.” He said. “This is good.”

She grinned wryly. “Not fast enough.” She went on the offensive, charging her blade in a flurry against him. He intercepted each strike, but only while being pushed back.

Maybe she was improving after all.

“You have more strength, now.” Qarro continued, jabbing. “I feel it, when you strike. And also,” he quickly brought his rapier up, intending to flay her chin like an impudent Bravo, “when you are blocking.”

She deflected his attempt at unwarranted chastisement, and knew the truth in his words. Though her thin blade was never a burden in her hand, it was lighter now than it ever had been. Time spent hauling nets had served her well.

“Enough of a warm up, then.” The First Sword said, giving his blade a twirl. “Let us dance, you and I.”

And with that he stepped into his role and became her opponent, bearing down on her with the expertise that had earned him both his rank and renown. His movements gave no clue as to where the next strike was intended, and his sword was a blur as it struck against her own. Instinct took over as she became nothing more than her blade, thin steel and cool edge.

Out of the corner of her eye, she could see a small crowd starting to gather on the veranda outside the Sealord’s Great Hall. They had started watching almost a year ago, after the first time she’d bloodied Qarro. It was the first time anyone had done that since he’d accepted the honor of becoming the Sealord’s First Sword, and whispers revealed that they secretly took wagers on how long it would take for the nameless ghoul to become his match.

Not long, if she had her way.

She charged, he sidestepped. He swiped, she blocked. She thrust, he parried. He arced, she pivoted. A trickle of sweat ran down her temple as she moved in harmonious opposition to his every offense, while he expertly pressed her defense, looking for an opening.

He found one, small as it was, and cut a thin red line across one of the forearms that he noticed had been tanned in the land of the friendly sun earlier. Grey eyes flicked over the crimson ribbon, and suddenly The Gentleman was reminded of a similar split that would have adorned a familiar neck before it had rent open into a bloody, gaping maw that poured out lifeblood before becoming part of a broken corpse that was tossed into a river.

She heard a howl within her mind, and she was no longer just a sword. She was both beast and blade, and each wanted blood.

Her sword swung with the precision of a water dancer, coupled with the angry ferocity of something else that could never be quantified with a name. Undaunted she pushed forward, every strike demanding reaction. She no longer saw Qarro before her, there was only shadow, shadow that held a blade and stood in her way.

Fueled by a rage so cold that it burned, she became a whirlwind of edge and point. Parry, riposte, thrust, spin, pierce, sever – nothing else existed beyond these destructive, primal desires.

 _‘This is new.’_ She could hear the words echo, as if called from a land as far away as the friendly sun. _‘And this is not the water dance.’_

A sharp sting across the bridge of her nose snapped her back into reality. She blinked, and in that single moment of disoriented hesitation the tip of Qarro’s blade pressed against her chest.

“I lost.” She murmured, her chin raising in defiance even as her arms fell limp at her sides.

Qarro pulled back his blade with a flourish. “You did,” he said, “but not without dignity.” He glanced at a bloodied tear in his silk shirt.

She looked down at the cut that ran from the curve of her elbow to her wrist. “I still have much to learn.” She said softly.

“As do I.” her mentor responded somberly. “The day we believe we have mastered the water dance, is the day we fall to the sword of another who understands there is no mastering of such a thing.” He reached and rested a warm hand on her shoulder. “Come again, when you can. We will continue to learn together.”

No One bowed her head deferentially. “Thank you, Qarro.” He pulled his hand away, and she turned, starting back towards the gate that led to the long road home.

“Little Death,” the Braavosi called out after her, “was it Volantis?”

She turned to look over her shoulder. “Not Volantis.” She said with barest hint of a grin. _It was all of them, Qarro._

**………**

**AN#2 - there is a lot of speculation on just how 'wearing faces' works with the FM. For this piece, I'm going with the concept that a new face is taken for each mission, but is not worn on 'off time'.**


	2. The Old Grizzly

**AN: I see a few familiar Allegiance readers have found their way here to the ‘Docks’ Great to see you all following along again =)**

 

**………**

Wealthy men always had the most ridiculously soft chairs to rest their slothful asses on.

Sighing, Ser Willem Darry shifted on his cushioned seat, his trousers slipping against the satin as he tried to maintain a strong posture at the alabaster adorned table in front of him where he awaited his host. Though the former Targaryen Master-at-Arms was long past his prime, he refused to have his shoulders stooped by a slouch or to recline like some beached sea mammal across one of the colorful chaises that sectored the oversized veranda.

The day he couldn’t conduct his affairs like the soldier that he was, was the day he’d drink a fine bottle of blackstrap rum, and then chase it down with a much smaller bottle of Nightshade.

Deep in his bones, he knew that day was coming soon.

He felt it, in the aches that pained his joints even on the sunniest day. His hands would tremble sometimes, with painful spasms that left him gripping nothing but air as if it were the hilt of his sword. There were moments when, for no reason at all, he’d feel his heart speed up within his chest and then clench, pausing as if suddenly unsure of its lifetime habit before it would finally begin to thrum out in steady rhythm once more. And then there was the gradual dimming of his eyes, now at a point where the world was cloaked as if in permanent twilight. No matter how bright the sky, he saw the world in dark, pale shades with only memory left to fill them in.

The gods had granted him reprieve from death once, years ago when he’d taken ill. He could only pray they would postpone his end just a little longer, so he could see his wards return to their rightful home in triumph.

Worn eyes looked out over the gardens of Illyrio Mopatis’ manse, falling on a grand marble pool with a statue of a handsome, naked young man holding a bravo’s blade in the middle of it. Willem’s thick grey brow furrowed as he considered the implications of such a piece. He had only met the flamboyant man twice before, and always under clandestine circumstances – never at the man’s own estate. A variety of depravities could always be found amongst those with power and the wealth to afford their questionable indulgences, along with the silence that would inevitably need to be purchased afterwards, but it never made any of it right.

“Strapping young lad, isn’t he?” a rich, familiar voiced boomed from behind him. “You wouldn’t know to look at me now, but I once made a living off the end of that blade. Not a very good one, mind you, but there were other benefits.”

Willem stood up and turned, breaking into a smile that no one else would have ever guessed was borne of relief. He could deal with a narcissist well enough, after all, he’d grown accustomed to living with one. “Illyrio,” he reached out and clasped his hand over the massive magister’s own, “it’s good to see you again.”

“Likewise, Ser Willem. Pardon my delay, but see that I do have good reason for it.” He turned and gestured toward another man standing a few paces behind him. “We’ll have another guest joining us this afternoon. I presume you remember my good friend Lord Varys?”

_The great Master of Whisperers who betrayed our liege by serving under Robert Baratheon, all while warning me whenever the Usurper had sought to kill Viserys and Daenerys. No, Spider, you’re not someone that anyone is likely to forget. To this day, I still don’t know who you truly serve, but I do know that Viserys and Dany owe you their lives._ Plump and perfumed , the bald-headed eunuch was as soft as Illyrio, while being one-third his mass. When Willem shook his hand, it felt as smooth as a woman’s. “It’s been a long time.” He paused, considering his next words. “I owe you a great debt. Without your warnings and continued support, the Targaryen line would have ended by now.”

“The pleasure is all mine.” Varys said smoothly. “And it is we who owe _you_ the debt, Ser Willem. Had you not smuggled those two out of Dragonstone after the sack of King’s Landing, all of this would be a moot point.”

Willem remembered that fateful night, nineteen years ago. Queen Rhaella Targaryen had perished after giving birth to little Daenerys in the midst of the greatest storm he had ever seen. Word of King Aerys’ murder had already reached the island stronghold, and the garrison stationed there began to plot to sell both Viserys and Daenerys to the new Usurper King Robert Baratheon. Begging forgiveness of the dead, he’d taken two rings that adorned Rhaella’s cold fingers as keepsakes, then gathered together the few men he knew he could trust implicitly. They bundled the young prince and swaddled the sleeping babe, smuggling them out of Dragonstone and taking them across the Narrow Sea to the Free City of Braavos. Once in the Titan’s city, he’d used every resource and connection he still had to take ownership of a modest estate to hide the children in, and hire a few servants to tend to their needs.

Once Castle Darry had been put to the torch and then passed around amongst bickering nobles like a painted tavern whore, Ser Willem feared for the future of the young prince and princess. His was a small house to start with, but even that support was gone. The tutelage required to prepare young royals for the many responsibilities that would one day be placed upon them did not come without a price, and he’d had nothing left from which to pay for any of it.

That is, until Illyrio Mopatis sent an emissary from Pentos, along with a small chest of gold and a letter from Varys informing him that he was not alone, and there would be more to follow.

From that day forward, there had always been more than enough.

“So,” Illyrio gestured grandly to the table Willem had been waiting at, as servants now topped it with fruits, small cakes, tea and wine, “shall we sit?”

The three each took a seat, and Illyrio immediately set to pouring himself a goblet of wine. Willem did likewise after the magister had taken his fill, not wanting to appear rude even though he never did much care for the taste of soured grapes. He was an ale man, through and through, but knew that preference was likely to be considered lowbrow and distasteful amongst the company he was currently keeping.

“So how fares the future king?” Varys asked, folding his powdered hands in front of him.

“He’s in good health,” the grizzled veteran responded, “and eager to reclaim his home.”

Illyrio licked deep purple from his blubbered lips. “So you’re finally sending him to Dorne, then?”

Willem gave a nod. “The arrangements have been made. They’re sending a ship for him next moon.”

“And what of his sister, Daenerys?” Varys inquired.

“She’ll be staying in Braavos where it’s safe until he has taken the Iron Throne. Once he is crowned king, she’ll return to Westeros where she’ll be suitably wed to strengthen his dominion and-”

“Will she?” Varys asked, raising his brow. “From what I hear the heir apparent has no intention of granting his sister to anyone else.”

Willem let out a slow breath and flicked his finger against the stem of his glass. He knew there was no point in asking just how the Spider knew about Viserys’ catastrophic ideals; he had as many eyes as his namesake _everywhere_. “There are days he rants,” he said gruffly, “that he is Aegon the Conqueror reborn.”

“And like Aegon, should be entitled to two wives as he subdues the land.” Varys deadpanned.

Willem’s silence served as confirmation.

“And there are other days,” Varys continued, “when he spends hours debating just how high a bride price he can set for her, to further benefit his own ceaseless wants.”

Willem felt the first twinges of a coming migraine.

“And you, Ser Willem, kept him from Dorne as long as you could, trying to curb his appetites and reach the good king you have spent nearly two decades believing is buried within him, only to find yourself maligned and assailed for your efforts.”

Willem took a long drink of the expensive, bitter wine he’d poured. “When a man knows he is to be king, he looks at things differently than everyone else, I suppose. I’ll never be able to see things from his perspective.”

“But you _can_ see that he bears his father’s madness.” It wasn’t a question.

“It’s not disloyalty to speak the truth, here.” Illyrio said after a quiet moment.

“Yes,” Willem said heavily, “he is mad. The last dragon… is mad.”

“And what of Daenerys?” the eunuch asked.

The old soldier felt his strain begin to abate. “Daenerys is _nothing_ like her brother.” He smiled softly as he spoke, the lines beside his eyes crinkling. “A gentle-hearted girl. Oft seems to forget she’s even a princess at all. She spends a lot of her time down at the docks, handing out lemons from the trees in our yard to sailors about to weigh anchor. Insists that they help stave off the spotting sickness that so often plagues long voyages.” He chuckled. “She tells me she’d like to be one herself – a sailor. Can you imagine that?”

Illyrio laughed, the large, sagging breasts on his chest trembling in a way that made Willem’s stomach roil. “Setting the fact that she’s a woman aside, a Targaryen sailor _at all_ , well,” sausage fingers stroked one prong of an oiled yellow beard, “that’d have her ancestors rolling in their graves. Everyone knows the sky is a dragon’s sea.”

“I can see you’re very fond of the princess,” Varys said, “and believe me when I say all of us gathered here would like to see a better life for her than being trapped as sister-wife to a madman.”

“I still hold out hope that Viserys will calm, once he’s wed.” Willem said. “They say Lady Arianne is very beautiful. Perhaps such a fortunate marriage, along with being back on his home soil will do his soul some good. He never did take to Braavos.” _Or the home he was raised in._

“Yes, there is a chance of that,” Varys said with more than a hint of doubt, “but even if he tames for a time, how long do you think that peaceful restraint will hold once he wears a crown? How many years have you already spent struggling with his temperament?”

Willem may have chosen to live the life of a simple soldier, but it was not for lack of intelligence. He cleared his throat. “It is no secret that I owe you both a great deal.” He said quietly. “And there is not enough thanks in the world for all that you have done to help me bring those children up. But I can see where this conversation is heading, and I will not be party to talk of treason.” He looked at each of the flabby men in turn, his eyes hardening in warning. “You mistake me for a lesser man.”

“Quite the contrary,” Varys continued smoothly, the grey grizzly’s rising ire rolling off of him like water on oil, “it is because we know you are _not_ a lesser man that you are here today.”

Willem’s face remained stony as he listened.

“What do you know of the night King’s Landing was sacked, Ser Willem?”

“Only what I heard, same as anyone else I’d imagine.” The old knight said, his voice still carrying a note of warning. “Word came to Dragonstone that Jaime Lannister of the Kingsguard cut King Aerys down while Gregor Clegane and his men scaled Maegor’s Holdfast. Those vicious monsters tore Rhaegar’s daughter little Rhaenys out from her hiding place under the bed and put her to the sword, then took his infant son Aegon and dashed his head against the wall. All in front of his poor mother Elia’s eyes before the Mountain raped her and crushed her head with his bare hands.”

“That is the accepted history, yes.” Varys confirmed. “But it is inaccurate.”

“How so?”

“While it’s true that the former King, Rhaenys Targaryen and Elia Martell were all killed as you described, the babe Aegon Targaryen was not.”

“Something even worse, then?” Willem frowned, his stomach clenching.

“No, what I mean to say is that he didn’t die _at all_.”

The sweet chirp of summer birds suddenly became loud in the silence that followed. “What exactly are you saying?” Willem asked finally, his voice a rough hush.

“What I’m saying is that the poor babe who had his head dashed against the stones by Gregor Clegane that night was _not_ Aegon Targaryen.” The Spider softened his voice, as if speaking tenderly would make everything apparent. “He was a tanner’s son, fair of hair who I bought from his drunkard father for a jug of Arbor gold. I knew of the approaching armies long before they arrived at the capital. King Aerys, so desperate to maintain the support of the Dornish forces, refused to heed my advice and have Elia and Rhaegar’s children sent along with his own to Dragonstone, holding them hostage instead.” Rounded shoulders draped in purple silk heaved with a heavy sigh. “So I switched the infants. Elia nursed a son of Pisswater Bend without even realizing that I had spirited her own away to safety before Tywin Lannister’s troops arrived.”

“So Rhaegar Targaryen’s son is… alive?”

“Alive, and very, very well.”

“Where is he?” Willem asked. “Why would you keep this hidden for so long? Viserys and Daenerys have believed for all of these years that they have no other family left in the world. How could you-” he stopped midsentence, remembering just who it was he was speaking to. “You intend to see Aegon to the Iron Throne in place of Viserys, don’t you?”

“Aegon is King Aerys' first son's son. As such, he is the true heir to the throne. However, many in Westeros will currently see Viserys as the rightful successor. Considering his… state of mind, how comfortable are you with placing all Seven Kingdoms in his charge while knowing there is another legitimate Targaryen heir of sound mind and even temper who could be raised to the throne instead?” He paused. “How comfortable are you with the idea of Daenerys possibly being tethered to him, enjoying a lifetime of his tender care?”

The eunuch’s bolt struck true. It kept Willem awake many a night, wondering just what course the future king would set for his sister once he took power. Would he walk the path of wisdom, and grant his sister a marriage into a strong house to bolster his own clout on the throne? Or would he insist on reliving the lives of his ancestors, long gone along with the bones of their dragons? It was impossible to predict. From all Willem knew of the erratic young man it was just as likely he’d flip a coin to decide when the time came.

“Even if I were to agree with you in principle,” the last man of Darry said, “the fact is the Seven Kingdoms believe that Aegon was murdered. You can’t expect people to believe your story, even if it is true. His claim would always be questioned. And then, there is Dorne to consider. Viserys has been pledged to Arianne since he was a boy. They’re expecting that she will be the next Queen of Westeros. They won’t simply cast aside their support of Viserys and grant it to some stranger that is ‘Aegon Targaryen’ based solely on your word. Not with their entire army at stake.”

“I do not take you for a fool Ser Willem, please extend me that same courtesy. I have no intention of trying to wed Aegon to Arianne; Viserys will set sail to his bride-to-be as arranged. And if all goes according to plan, we’ll have no need of their army.” He reached a hand across the table, delicately pouring a cup of tea. “It is Daenerys who I hope to marry to Aegon.”

Willem immediately felt the protective instincts of the father he never was rouse within him. “Which is well and good for the lad, since her public acceptance of his claim and union with him would quiet many a naysayer, but may fare no better for Daenerys herself than entrusting her to Viserys. I know nothing of this young man, save for that he _exists_.”

A scoop of sugar and a dollop of cream fell into Varys’ mug, and he stirred it patiently. “Aegon has been groomed for rule since he was a boy.” The Spider said. “He’s intelligent and well-educated. He speaks many different tongues, and has a good head for sums. I’ve kept him hidden amongst common folk, much like you have with Viserys and Daenerys. It’s kept him connected to the concerns of _real_ people, and given him an awareness of the needs of the land. He’s also quite the musician, like his father was.” He took a drink, steam rising and scenting the air around them with the aroma of exotic spices. “Ladies seem to find him to be quite comely as well, once again like his father. And,” Varys looked over his mug at Willem pointedly, “he is quite the sailor. Something Daenerys may find appealing.”

“And here I thought the sky was a dragon’s sea.” Willam said caustically, glancing over at Illyrio before turning his attention back to the eunuch. “I want to meet him, this man you say is Rhaegar’s son. I knew Rhaegar better than most; I trained him in the sword myself, and watched him grow from a boy into one of the finest men in the entire Targaryen dynasty. If he is truly Rhaegar’s blood, I will know. And if he is all that you say he is, then… I will join you in support of his claim. For the sake of Westeros.” _And Daenerys._

“Fair enough.” Varys set down his cup. “Give me your word that you’ll keep Daenerys in Braavos, even if Viserys summons for her, and I will arrange for you to meet with Aegon.”

“Agreed. She’ll stay with me until I’ve met with him, you have my word.”

 

**…………**

After finalizing his agreement with the Spider, Willem spent one evening in Illyrio’s manse before booking passage on a ship returning to Braavos the next morning.

The days spent on the water had given him entirely too much time to think.

Although he had made no commitment aside from keeping Daenerys home until he could assess Aegon, he still couldn’t help but feel guilt gnawing at him. He’d spent so many years telling Viserys that he would be king, trying to prepare him for that burden, and now here he was, considering casting his lot with another who would climb those very steps to the throne instead of him.

Perhaps this was how Eddard Stark had felt, back when Robert called upon him to join in his rebellion. Would he have still done so if Rhaegar had not taken up with Lyanna? If King Aerys had not just killed both his father and brother? Out of all the great Houses that rose up against the Targaryen king, it was House Stark that had surprised him. The North was, for the most part, a separate entity from the other six kingdoms, and had shown no inclination to take power in the south. They were stubborn and prideful, to be sure, but not treasonous.

Aerys’ madness had made monsters of good men. And short of a miracle, Viserys would end up doing the same.

Everything he’d done would be for naught if it only resulted in history repeating.

He let his worries drop with the ship’s anchor when it finally docked in the Purple Harbor, and breathed in the salt of home as he disembarked. The journey had tired him, and like the old man that he was, he longed for the sanctuary of his household.

It seemed that part of his household had also been longing for him in return. Luco, one of his young servants was waiting for him at the bottom of the gangplank. “Come to see me home, boy?” The old bear asked.

“Ser Darry,” the young man said, distress evident in his voice, “please, you have to come back quickly!”

Squinting, Willem’s fading eyes could see a mottle of purple on Luco’s jaw, and a dried split on his lower lip. “What happened?” he asked, fearing he already knew the answer.

“It was Viserys,” Luco said, shaking his head. “He… I don’t know. He started raving, something about you thinking him a fool, and knowing that you were going behind his back to arrange a marriage for Daenerys. He started breaking things, and screaming about waking a dragon.”

Willem gripped Luco’s thin shoulders in his hands. “Where is Daenerys now, boy?”

There were tears beginning to form at the corners of the young man’s eyes. “I tried to stop him, Ser Darry, I swear. Even though I know he’s meant to be king, I still… me and Lylah both tried.” He took a shaking breath. “He broke into her room.. he..” he shook his head, “he forced himself on her. Said he’d ruin her for anyone else you ever tried to match her with. Then he said he would kill you, once you returned.”

A fire long thought dead ignited within Willem Darry, primal and furious, and without another word he turned towards the bridge leading home and ran.

 


	3. The Lemon Princess

No matter how much steam rose, the water was never hot enough.

Daenerys sank into the deep tub that had been drawn for her, willing her hands to stop shaking. The heat was intense enough to scald and blister anyone else, but still she longed for more.

It was if nothing short of flame itself could make her feel clean again.

Gritting her teeth, she worked the fragrant soap into a lather on her skin, rubbing it in with a rough cloth until her pale limbs became reddened with the effort. As she rinsed the suds away, she tried to imagine that any lingering remnant of _him_ was melting away and vanishing along with them.

It wasn’t the fact that he was her brother that caused her to tremble and dry-heave in the privacy of the bath. She was Targaryen, and was raised knowing that she would be his wife someday if he so decided. No, it wasn’t that he was kin, or that he had taken her without the honor of marriage, or even that he had forced himself upon her that caused her utter revulsion now– it was the fact that he, Viserys himself, disgusted her. He had grown into a man of no true worth; as selfish as she’d ever seen and as mad as nearly every story she’d ever heard about their father.

Poor Ser Willem had blamed himself for the whole thing, hugging her tight in arms that were once strong as a bear’s after he’d tossed the crownless king out into the streets of the Purple Harbor district, thundering that he was Dorne’s problem now, and that he’d snap his neck like a twig if he ever thought to set foot back on the estate again.

“I shouldn’t have gone,” he kept saying in a voice far too small for a man so large. “I’m so sorry little Dany… I thought he was doing better, with his upcoming marriage. If I hadn’t owed them both so much, I never would have left…”

But she knew it wouldn’t have mattered. They were no longer children, and Ser Willem couldn’t oversee them as if were. Viserys had taken what he wanted for years – from her, from the servants, even from Ser Willem himself – and nothing would ever stop him so long as he was destined to be king.

And it had become all too clear just what kind of king he was going to be.

“My lady?” A soft voice said from behind the doorway, interrupting the dark augury of her thoughts.

“Come in, Lylah.”

Her handmaid slipped in quietly, as if afraid that heavy footfalls would somehow shatter the false composure that Daenerys so expertly displayed. “I brought fresh towels, my lady, and some salve and bandages in case-”

“In case it was as bad as it looked?” Daenerys asked.

Lylah looked down, unable to meet her eyes.

“You may need that salve for yourself,” Daenerys said softly, “your eye is already darkening.”

“Don’t you go doing that!” Lylah said emphatically. “Don’t you dare go worrying about everyone else right now.”

But she did worry. It wasn’t as if she’d borne the brunt of Viserys’ lunacy alone.

“Is Luco alright?” she asked, remembering how Viserys had thrown the poor boy to the floor and kicked him into a curled heap.

“He will be,” Lylah sighed, “Ser Willem gave him a few shots of that black rum he fancies so much to calm his nerves. Then sent him off to hire a sellsword to help keep peace here, until Westeros’ future king is well on his way to Dorne.”

Daenerys closed her eyes and leaned back, letting out a deep breath. “He’ll not forgive this, you know. Any of it. If he somehow does manage to become king through Dorne’s competence, his first act will be to send assassins across the Narrow Sea to snuff out those who dared to stand up to him.”

“ _Valar morghulis_.” Lylah said evenly.

“ _Valar morghulis_ , indeed.” Dany agreed, finding brief kinship with the House of Black and White. Then: “there’s a ship coming in later this afternoon, isn’t there?”

Lylah nodded. “ _The Lady Issia_ is due in at Ragman’s Harbor.”

“Good.” Daenerys stood up and held out her hand as Lylah handed her fresh towel. “That’s where I’m going, then. Please let Ser Willem know I’ll be out for the rest of the day.”

Lylah’s brow furrowed. “But my lady, the others will be there. Surely you want some time to heal from the hurts wrought on you?”

“It is no more than any other woman is forced to endure. No, the last thing I want to do is sit here all day wallowing in self-pity.”

“…Alright then. Just let me change and I’ll go with you.”

“No,” Dany said, “I need you to stay here and keep an eye on Ser Willem. I worry he may have pushed himself too hard earlier with Viserys. And you know he’d never say a word even if he was hurting.”

Lylah frowned, the small scars on her cheek drawing taut. “I worry you are pushing _yourself_ too hard. I’m not the only one bruising. Won’t you reconsider?”

“You know I won’t.”

“Will you at least let me tend the swelling on your cheek?”

Daenerys pressed her fingers to her left cheek, feeling a familiar tenderness beneath her skin. What hid from sight today would blossom purple tomorrow without ministration.

She gave Lylah a permissive nod. There was time to allow that much.

 

**……….**

The small sack of fresh-picked lemons she carried rustled at Dany’s side as she headed south on the stony arch crossing the Canal of Heroes. The morning fog had long burned away, and every few steps she’d feel the sun break through the thick clouds above to warm her shoulders before falling behind their heavy shroud once again. Each breath she took had a tang of salt, growing stronger the closer she drew to Ragman’s Harbor. She could hear children laughing throughout the bustle of the city, tiny bravos waving their small wooden swords as they called out “for revenge!” and “for honor!” as they dueled, looking for all the world as if they truly knew what each meant despite their youth.

This was home. And it was enough to finally stop the tremor in her hands and make her forget her painful disgrace for a while. As she headed west over Nabbo’s bridge, the exiled princess Daenerys faded away entirely, leaving only Dany, bearing through the clamor of the harbor market to her docks.

“Bounty of the sea! Git the slippery bastards while they’re still slack-jawed an’ flappin’!”

“Elixirs straight from the Shadowlands of Asshai! Infused with the powerful magic of its oldest living magus! One spoonful will cure any ailment!”

“Spices from caravan traders of Demon Road! One pinch will turn any pauper’s fare into a meal fit for the Sealord himself!”

She smiled as the vendors hawked, making a mental note to check the stall of spices later on.

“Hey, hey, the First Sword is fightin’ the ghoul again!”

“How do you know? Are you sure?”

“Bloody hell, of course I’m sure! I ever hear wrong? Got that scar, from forehead to jaw. Come on, sometimes they spar for hours. Let’s go see if we can catch a look!”

The First Sword and the ghoul – it was a while since Dany had heard the docks kindle with chatter about them. The first time the ghoul had bloodied Qarro, it was all the young water dancing enthusiasts talked about for _days_.

Dany refused to admit that it caught her interest, too.

“Hey Dany!” Sera called, distracting her from musings on duels and waving her over.

“Did the others make it?” Dany asked the short, shaggy blonde-headed woman once she’d managed to cut her way through the throng to the pier.

“They did. Mikel’s gone to bribe a few of the dockhands that will be unloading _The Lady Issia_. They’ll bring the crates to the cellar under Javan’s textile shop.” Sera smiled and shook her head when she noticed the bag of lemons. “You do realize you could make a small fortune off of those here, don’t you? Most places the water is so damn salty no fruit trees would ever survive. All of our shipments have to come all the way from Dorne. How _do_ you manage to grow them?”

In truth, Dany wasn’t entirely sure. The lemon tree had always been outside her window, for as long as she could remember. Ser Willem’s home must have been built near one of the few underground springs of freshwater that pocketed beneath the city. “Trade secret,” she said with a wink. “If I told you, I’d have to kill you.”

“In that case, keep your secrets. Just so long as you’re willing to keep on sharing.” She held out a hand, and Dany gave her a lemon. Sera thanked her, and looked over the white-haired woman’s shoulder. “No Lylah today?”

“No, not today. She wanted to come, but she’s tending to an injured friend.” Dany said evasively.

“Oh, I hope everything’s alright. She’s very kind, isn’t she? It may be for the best that she’s not here for this round, though.”

Dany raised an eyebrow. “Oh? Why is that?”

“The new arrivals coming in today are from Volantis.” Sera said.

“Oh. You’re right, then.” Dany said quietly, understanding. Some things were still too close to the heart, even with the balm of time.

Lylah had only seen twelve summers when Ser Willem had brought her home to tend to a much younger Daenerys. Dark-haired and olive skinned with a soft voice that carried an accent that the young Targaryen didn’t recognize, Daenerys had been fascinated with her from the start. She’d barraged the poor girl daily with questions, wanting to know everything about the land where she had come from, her family, and if she’d ever seen a dragon. Lylah was always patient, answering all of her questions even when they trailed off into the territory of childish nonsense.

All except for one.

“How did you get those scars?” Daenerys would ask, pointing to the small circles on her cheek.

“Sweet child, that is a story for when you are older.” Lylah would always say, before pulling her into a hug.

For years Dany would continue to ask, and Lylah would always give her the same answer: “Sweet child, that is a story for when you are older.”

It was not until her fourteenth summer that Dany was finally considered to be ‘older’.

“Do you remember where I come from, Dany?” Lylah had asked.

“Of course. All the way from Volantis. The oldest of the Free Cities.”

“It’s funny that they call them the free cities, when truly none but Braavos is free. These scars, little dragon, are those I took willingly when I arrived here. I chose to bear these scars to get rid of the tears that had been tattooed on my cheek.”

“You were a slave, then.. a…” Daenerys trailed off, knowing what both the presence of the marks and their symbolism meant.

“Yes. I was a child slave who would rather have died than spend my life pleasuring filthy old men and their repugnant sons. So I did what so very few ever dare to do – I ran away to the only city in Essos that would guarantee my freedom: Braavos.”

Daenerys had heard of the horrific punishments that runaway slaves endured if they were caught, which they most often were. The threat of such barbarism was usually enough to keep the massive serf population under control, even though the masters would have been easily crushed under their chattel if they ever organized a rebellion. “How did you manage to escape?” Dany asked, incredulous.

“A Braavosi helped me.” She answered. “They came sometimes, to the city. Places where no master would ever go. He offered to hide us on a ship, and smuggle us to freedom.”

“But weren’t you worried that it was a trap?”

“Oh, I was very afraid. But I knew that if I didn’t try, I might never be free. And a life like the one that was chosen for me… that was worse than no life at all. So I went with him, me and a few others, and true to his word, he brought us here. I remember the first time I stepped out of that crate and saw the ship that had carried me away… I cried. For the first time in my life, I cried because I was so _happy_.”

Daenerys had felt something ignite within her then, something deep within her soul that had always been, but had no name. “Lylah, does that man who saved you still do this? Smuggle slaves into Braavos?”

“No. He died a few years ago, gods rest his soul. But he was not alone. There were others who did the same, and carry on to this day.”

“…do you know where we can find them?”

Lylah paused. “Are you asking what I think you are, Dany?”

Daenerys did not hesitate. “Yes. We need to help these people.”

“Little princess, that is something far too dangerous for you to get yourself caught up in. Even in Braavos, the threat does not end. Bounties are placed, not only on the slaves but also on anyone suspected of aiding in their escape. Hunters from the four corners of Essos make their living from these rewards – and they have very long memories.”

“Then we’ll just have to be very careful.”

Lylah had argued against her for days, but fire burns deep within a dragon and Daenerys would not be denied. In the end she had reluctantly agreed to take Dany along with her the next time she met with her comrades, on the condition that she never, ever speak of it to Ser Willem. Daenerys had been part of the underground anti-slavery movement ever since.

Now she only needed a ship of her own. The Braavosi captains who were part of their quiet ring were still legitimate businessmen, and could only afford to allocate so much space to the transport of human cargo. There were too many risks to bring more than a few over at a time, and even that much took careful planning and the occasional bribe depending on just who would be inspecting freight at the harbors they’d stop at on the way back home. If Dany had her own ship, she could cut out the complications of commerce entirely.

_One day_ , she thought to herself. _I **will** have a life beyond being some brood mare._

“Mikel’s giving us the signal.” Sera said, her hand across her brow to shade her eyes from the fickle sun. “It’s time for us to go welcome Braavos’ newest citizens.”

 

**………**

By the time Dany and Sera had climbed down the steep stairs to the dank cellar under Javan’s shop, Dagen had already hauled the tops off of five large crates, and was working on the sixth. Rafe, worn from his weeks at sea as the shepherd tending to the former slaves during their transport, busied himself pouring buckets of hot water into a large steel tub lined with towels. The road to freedom was not a pretty one, and after weeks spent lying under a wool blanket in a timber box drilled with a few holes, the first thing most people wanted was to rinse their own filth away.

Two men, two women, and two children – both little girls – were the Titan’s newest residents. Sera began to unpack a basket full of fresh food, and Dany cut lemons into wedges for each of them, plus Rafe. They had all laughed at her the first time she’d done it, thinking it some strange superstition, but when they saw men who had caught the spotted sickness begin to recover after eating some, their mirth at her expense had ended. As unpleasantly sour as they were, the lemons seemed to ward off the sailor’s disease that killed so many.

The same blade that so deftly sliced lemons then went into the embers of the small brazier that warmed the room, heating it in preparation of its next, more personal task. Dagen spoke with the two men, asking them in halting Valyrian about their knowledge and trades. Most had skills beyond the brands on their skin, and he was well-connected enough to find almost anyone reasonable work quickly. He noted their areas of expertise, and then did the same with the two women. They would be even easier to find work for than the men; Braavos was continually expanding and had begun breaking into the handcrafted luxury markets that had been traditionally dominated by Volantis, Qohor and Qarth. Fingers nimble with a needle were in high demand, along with those who had a delicate touch with a paintbrush. And the children – they had their whole lives ahead of them. They would be able to choose what they wanted to do.

Once they were all cleaned, fed and clothed, Dany pulled the white-hot blade from the embers. This part was difficult; especially with children, but it was also entirely necessary. No one was ever truly free while bearing the mark of a life someone else decided upon for them. Dagen and Rafe held each man still as Dany held the flat of her blade to their cheeks, burning away the ink of a buzzing fly and then a fish. Once she was finished they were released, and Sera placed a cooling cream on their skin to ease the searing of their wounds. The two women were next, each with matching tattoos of flames on their cheeks marking their former servitude in a temple of R’hllor. Though they could not keep from crying out as the blade melted into their skin, they did not balk or turn away as most instinctively did.

When Dagen and Rafe each held one of the little girls, Dany had to take a moment. Neither of them could have been older than six summers, and both had already been inked with the tears of pleasure slaves.

Just how many more of them were there, still trapped in Volantis? In Meereen? In Astapor? In all of the so-called ‘free cities’? Entire lives being used as nothing more than amusement for those who had money and power to abuse.

Like Viserys.

Taking a deep breath, she brushed her thumb over the cheek of each girl and kissed their foreheads softly in turn, whispering an apology. Then she pressed the blade, smoke rising as the brands of slavery both visible and intangible were scorched away.

It broke her heart, but she did not turn aside. Not for one moment. This was the reason she could never stop fighting this losing war.

She would always see each and every one of their faces.

 

**……..**

**AN: Yup. Braavos is running its own Underground Railroad, just, ya know… on the water.**


	4. The Gentleman

**AN: As this fic is categorized as AU, I’ve taken a few liberties on the known training events in the HoBaW. I have, however, still tried to make these changes feel organic to purpose of Arya’s instruction and keep them tied in to the known canon.**

**For those who read Allegiance, there is a little easter egg in this chapter for you ;)**

**……….**

She had seen one of Arya Stark’s memories again, and it had caused her to lose control during her duel against Qarro.

She didn’t like it one bit.

Arya Stark had been locked away, piece by piece, throughout the duration of No One’s training in the House of Black and White. Her name was the first thing imprisoned behind the thick metal door she’d crafted in her mind; just a small thing that took no more space than a moth flickering around aimlessly without the draw of a candle in that partitioned cell.

And just like that moth, it fell dead quickly.

The next piece carved away was Arya Stark’s pride, a facet of her being that had life and strength of its own, and required _months_ of degradation before it was finally subdued. Day after day, the girl who had once been Arya Stark had been sent out into the streets of Braavos as a filthy urchin to scrounge food, coppers, and secrets alike. In the interest of survival, she’d learned how to quickly nick a few mussels from fishermen’s nets when they were unloading from the docks, how to pocket small fish when the fishmonger turned the other way down at the harbor market, and she’d even discovered what time of day bakeries and confectionaries tended to throw out their stale goods. She had to fight to get a share of those scraps, though; seabirds and alley dogs had come to rely on that very same scheduling for their own sustenance, and they did not take kindly to losing a share.

Grubby and growing leaner by the day, the former Stark found sanctuary beneath the docks at Ragman’s Harbor. When the tide was out, she could find coins that had fallen through the cracks between the wooden planks in the sand below, along with the occasional crab wandering in the dank shadows. Besides the occasional bit of seafood and coin, she found the shaded underworld beneath each pier provided her other treasures as well: secrets. Both men and women alike spoke freely up on the timbers, and even hushed voices reached the stray’s ears. It gave her plenty to tell the Kindly Man when he’d asked what she’d learned upon returning to the House of Black and White.

As did murder.

Even after forsaking her name and scavenging through the streets of Braavos for weeks in unwashed tatters, Arya Stark was still thriving within No One’s characteristic of _loyalty_. No longer left entirely to her own devices, she’d been appointed to work for Brusco, a fishmonger who sent her out with a cart to sell oysters every morning. It was while she’d been peddling shellfish that she came across Dareon, a deserter from the Night’s Watch who proclaimed the abandonment of his post with pride and followed it up with songs that rolled like honey over thunder. Although she had tried to let it go and just walk away, No One became Arya Stark once again and killed him for his crime in place of her lord father. When she next returned to the Kindly Man, she wore a nice new pair of black boots and told him that she’d learned of Dareon’s untimely death. When he’d asked her who killed him, she simply replied: “Arya Stark of Winterfell.”

There had been no point in lying.

She waited, expecting a reprimand, but none ever came. She embraced No One in full once more and continued to sell oysters while learning the Braavosi language by day, followed by disclosing secrets and practicing the fine art of lying by night. In time she began to think that perhaps her misstep had been forgiven; written off as a novice’s crime of passion that could be set aside so long as it wasn’t repeated. That maybe, just maybe, her honesty had earned her a little bit of leniency.

She thought wrong.

When she’d woken up blinded, she didn’t need to ask why. She’d seen the world through Arya Stark’s eyes for too long; it was time to take them away – along with the independence that nurtured the fierce pride they’d been trying, unsuccessfully, to snuff out of her ever since she’d arrived.

_‘A girl still thinks too highly of herself. Now she will become the lowest of them all.’_

Forced back into rags and shuffled out the great alabaster and ebony doors, she’d been ordered to beg in the streets.

_‘But why? For how long?’_

_‘As long as it takes for you to convince the world that you are truly helpless.’_

She’d almost been more horrified at the idea of presenting herself as some kind of invalid than she was at the fact that she couldn’t see.

Holding a chipped wooden beggar’s bowl, she carefully climbed down one step at a time until she reached the cobbled street that led north across the bridge to the Isle of the Gods. Like she remembered seeing others do before her, she slumped against the fine marble wall outside the Temple of the Moonsingers, set her bowl in front of her, and looked generally miserable. She made sure to turn her head back and forth every so often, so the whites of her blinded eyes could be seen by all the pious who passed by.

When she returned to her own temple at nightfall, the Kindly Man was waiting at the doors for her.

_‘And what have you learned today?’_

_‘That holy people are cheap.’_

_‘A lesson better learned sooner rather than later. Tomorrow you will not return to the Temple of the Moonsingers; you will head west past the Sept Beyond the Sea and wander the streets between the Bloody Bridge and the Canal of Heroes.’_

_‘But that’s too far! I can’t see, I’ll end up breaking my neck.’_

_‘An injury will only serve you. Clearly you’re not garnering much sympathy as you are right now.’_

So the next day saw her with her arms out in front, trying to navigate the bustling corridors she’d been assigned to. Three times she tripped over cobbles, and by noon she’d bruised her knee, skinned her palm and split her lip. When she finally sat down to beg, there was an authenticity to her despondency that earned her a few more coins than the day before.

She continued wandering that zone of good fortune for two more weeks, until she was rewarded for her success by, once again, being sent elsewhere.

_‘You will go further west now, across Nabbo’s bridge to the harbor district. And you will not return here until you have solicited more money than all of your previous daily excursions combined.’_

_‘But that’s a poor neighborhood! I can’t beg there; surely you know how little most of them have!’_

_‘I know that as of right now, they **all** have more than you do. Now go.’ _

Her new home became the back alley behind the Outcast Inn, where her first night was spent scrambling to avoid the foul rush of chamber pots being dumped outside of windows above her. After a quick roll that spared her an unpleasant deluge, she smacked up against a lean-to that smelled like sourweed and served as residence to a few thin, feral cats. Offended at her presence, all but one of the felines left, the night calling them to the hunt as much as it called her to fitful sleep.

As she slept, she dreamt of the world around her as seen through eyes that were low to the ground and sharper than hers had ever been.

Dirty and depressed, No One made her way to the docks the next morning, her despair on full display. Death. Death would have been better than sitting in pitch black under the hot sun, humiliating herself in hopes of charity. She could feel the wooden planks shift beneath her as people came and went, and her ears still habitually pricked at the sounds of whispered secrets. She smelled an assortment of hearty foods carried on the breeze from the vendor stalls behind her, but denied herself despite having enough coins to ease the gnawing in her stomach.

She couldn’t afford to waste what little she’d acquired if she ever hoped to continue training in the House of Black and White.

Each day that passed, she became a little more wretched. Forgetting what dignity even meant, she gave herself a twitch and a tremble, and cut herself on a broken piece of glass behind the Outcast. She left the wound open and oozing, and lolled her head every so often like a simpleton she’d once seen. The hungrier she became, the easier it was to dream during the day – she walked on four strong, agile legs and climbed rooftops, sharp claws destroying straw nests hidden beside chimneys while feasting on the small birds that had been waiting within. She saw herself from one of those rooftops, small and insignificant amongst the scurrying crowd. Slanted green eyes watched as No One’s chin rested against her chest, dozing as so many passed by.

And even as one stopped.

A small woman with light skin and white hair paused beside the nameless vagrant and knelt down, placing a gleaming coin into the sad bowl beside her before getting back up and continuing on her way, catching up to a thin man who bore the same platinum crown that she did.

Furry ears perked, catching snatches of the conversation that followed between the silver two below:

‘ _That’s an entire gold dragon! What are you possibly thinking, Daenerys? Go and take it back, right now!’_

_‘Viserys we have enough. Gods, just leave it be, it’s not like it was your money!’_

_‘Your money **is** my money! And if you won’t take it back, so help me **I** will!’_

_‘Think about what you are saying. Think about who you are meant to be, and all that represents. Do you really need to go pull coins from a poor orphan’s beggar bowl?!’_

_‘You’re starting to wake the dragon, Dany. You know what happens when-’_

The daylight dreamer had heard enough. Whiskers still speckled with blood, the cat leapt down from its vantage point and bolted across the timbers, targeting the man who spoke of dragons. Claws gripped and pulled ten pounds of furred ferocity up the length of his slim frame, and then assailed his pale face, biting and slashing until he was finally thrown off. No One came back to herself, and natural dexterity had the tomcat out of sight long before the bloodied man even knew which direction to look for him.

A gold dragon. One foreign coin, worth more than all of her previous efforts combined.

Part of her wanted to call out, to catch up with the pale woman before she’d left the harbor and give her the coin back, telling her that she didn’t need it and that this was all just some horrible, stupid test. But that part of her was Arya Stark, and she knew that if she ever wanted to see again, if she wanted to learn how to kill, if she ever wanted to have her revenge, she would have to let go.

But she would not forget. And one day, she would return that gold dragon to its rightful owner, and then some.

In the prison she’d crafted within her mind, she locked up the alpha beast that was Arya Stark’s pride. It railed against the mental bars that held it captive, stomping carelessly on the dried corpse of her name, and roaring in defiance.

She heard it echoing all the way back to the House of Black and White, where she handed the Kindly Man her bowl of coins topped with a single gold dragon, and was welcomed back in.

Her time as a beggar had ended, but her time of impairment had not. She continued to serve the Many-Faced God in tedium, blindly scrubbing the floors and exchanging lies with the waif. She tended to the dead, cleansing and preparing them by touch alone. She made her way through the streets that were familiar under her feet daily, honing in on voices carrying secrets that she used as currency to pay her toll every time she was asked what she’d learned. The tomcat from the docks visited her from time to time when she swept the stone stairs outside of the temple, and she found that if she focused, she could see the world again through his eyes.

It was those very keen eyes that warned her of the silent assault coming in from behind her one afternoon, giving her enough time to hit the Kindly Old Man across the head with the handle of her broom before he had a chance to strike.

Her sight was restored shortly after, and she was finally permitted in the great hall of faces. She drank from a silver cup and her forehead was cut; a battered visage placed over her own and melding to it as her blood sealed them together. She performed her first sanctioned kill under the guise of an unhinged jaw and dark bruises. For her next kill she was granted the right to make her own cut, the cut she would open time and time again for every strange life she would lead. She pressed the blade against her forehead and pulled, dragging it down along the curve of her cheek and jaw, then letting it fall away.

The unique scar she bore was as much individuality as service to the Many-Faced God allowed for, and it marked her with accepted rank. It was just the beginning.

Having given up Arya Stark’s name and pride, a gift was granted to No One in exchange. A long, slender blade that fit her hand as if it had been forged within her grip.

_‘You came to us with a blade, and some skill in wielding it. You will continue in this; when the Many-Faced God does not have need of your services you shall go to the Sealord’s Palace and meet with Qarro Volentin, First Sword of Braavos. He will finish with you what Syrio Forel started.’_

She’d felt a traitor, wielding this beautiful blade in lieu of her hidden Needle. And they must have known it, because that led to the next fundamental piece of Arya Stark being shut away in the cold dark: her loyalty.

No One’s shaggy hair was shorn, and she was apprenticed to Izembaro the Mummer King to entertain at the Gate. Tilted and dank, the Gate was far from classy, yet its seats were always filled with sailors, whores, and merchants who appreciated a bargain.

Behind the stage she was taught the trades of counterfeit glamour and artifice, able to make herself an old spinster with the clever application of a greying wig and charcoaled creases; then she sloughed away the false years just as easily and looked a child with cheeks rubbed until they were pleasantly ruddy and a lilt in her voice. Woman or man, young or old, No One could be whatever the crowd needed her to be for a particular performance, transforming beneath a variety of cosmetics and wardrobe.

She could even be Arya Stark’s own sister.

‘The Bloody Hand’, the play was called, based on the very horrors she’d lived through back in King’s Landing. Although her character was not specifically named such, the golden dwarf who was clearly meant to be Tyrion Lannister could not have married any other flame-haired maid of the wolves – there was only Sansa. And by order of Izembaro himself, No One was to play the role of Sansa Stark, including her marriage followed by her scripted rape.

She threw up over the side of the stage when the fat mummer left after delivering his decree, and she _k_ new that his words were not his own, but those of an old man who became less kindly by the day.

She would _not_ let them break her.

Every night for a week, she played her unnamed older sister; beautiful, docile, and broken. And every night, after the crowds roared and stomped and cheered, she curled up in her cot and bit her fist until it bled, feeling pieces of her soul die as every caged facet of Arya Stark warred within her.

She would avenge them, no matter what the cost. Even if she had to destroy herself.

No One found Arya Stark’s loyalty and chained it. Once shackled, she hauled it kicking and screaming into her mind’s dungeon, forcing it to dwell behind the same partition as her name and her pride. It was hours before their unified howls quieted.

The play was such a success it was held over another week. No One’s role was changed for this second round; rather than play the flame-haired maid of the wolves, she was to play the young king – an uncredited Joffrey Baratheon.

Sporting blonde tresses and a gold-leafed crown, No One stood on the center of the stage and was anointed the King of the Andals and the First Men, and Lord Protector of the Realm. She pulled her lips back into vile sneers and strode about the landing with an arrogant gait, her memory having provided her the tools with which she honed her craft. When the time came, she raised a red-gold clad arm and called out for the death of the traitorous hand, who was intended to be Lord Eddard Stark.

She reviled herself so much in those moments that her skin broke out into fever in protest beneath her shining satin and velvet, but none could tell. Not even the great Izembaro himself.

She played a few more roles after that: a mercenary who fell in love with his brother’s wife, a sympathetic handmaid who served a selfish young noble, and a particularly savage stoneman trying to escape the ruins of Old Valyria to infect those who’d done him wrong before he forgot them completely.

She was a blank slate, and anyone’s life could be etched upon her surface. And when that was apparent, she was once again sent back to the House of Black and White.

Not a word was ever spoken about ‘The Bloody Hand’ or the cruelty of the mind game that was behind it. Instead there were only more assignments, and, when she was lucky, more training with Qarro. She killed two more men for the Many-Faced God, without ever asking why. Arya Stark’s questions, once a cacophony between her ears, were becoming nothing more than muffled protests to be disregarded.

But she still had more to learn.

_‘Select the face of a young man, and take a name.’_

_‘Who is to receive the Gift?’_

_‘You will not grant the Gift, but instead serve. Go to see Madame Oressa, in the Purple Harbor district. You know of her, yes?’_

_‘…she runs an upscale whorehouse. Just how am I to serve **there**?’ _

_‘You will put your blade to good use and help keep order. One of her men was lost in a duel; you will replace him. And while you are there, you will learn the base nature that drives most men and women.’_

_‘I’m not an idiot. I already know what goes on in places like that.’_

_‘No. You don’t know anything, yet.’_

It had only taken her a few nights of quiet observation to understand what he meant. No One understood the physical act of sex, but none of the complicated dynamics that compelled those who sought it out. There were some who wanted nothing more than a primal release; a momentary pleasure to interrupt a life of burden and strain. Those were simple transactions, unworthy of note. But the majority of exchanges were layered in unspoken desires that transcended mere physicality, and it was only when well-trained instinct served to fulfill these longings that any true satisfaction was derived.

In the end, it was all about power.

Every man was a king in his own mind. Whether it be money, a title, a skill, a characteristic or a passion, there was always _something_ that he believed made him ‘a little more’ than all the rest. And what he sought, whether he realized it or not, was someone who could recognize that piece of greatness within him, and embrace it. Want him for it. Perhaps even love him because of it.

Every woman’s heart held a secret. No matter her beauty or success, there was always _something_ that left a tear in her. She carried it around with her, veiled, wherever she went, so accustomed to the sharp pains it caused every so often that she didn’t even feel them. What she sought, whether she realized it or not, was someone who had enough love to not only discover that breach and mend it within her, but to also prevent any more from ever rending her heart.

And in the absence of finding these things, men and women paid handsomely for a pretty lie.

And if, for some reason, they decided they did _not_ want to pay, that was when a No One called Dane would step in with a blade quicker than any rising temper.

One of the ladies, Nadene, took notice.

She favored Dane, spending quiet moments chatting with him and offering to share her wine. Always, politely, Dane would decline, citing that Oressa was counting on him to keep a sober eye on things. Nadene would laugh, undaunted, and continue in conversation with him every evening between customers, revealing small pieces of herself until the Faceless Man could clearly see just what secret wound _she_ carried around.

Nadene was almost through with the brothel. She had never wanted to be there in the first place, but life often traps you in a corner when you don’t have the gold to just tear down a wall. What she’d really wanted, was to sing. So every night off she’d had, she went from tavern to tavern, soothing sailors and enchanting patrons with her dulcet tones. The owner of Moroggo’s tavern had been thoroughly impressed, and offered her a contract.

She’d be gone by the turn of the moon.

‘ _She fancies you_.’ Oressa told Dane one night. ‘ _And she’s one of the prettiest here. Perhaps you have other… preferences?_ ’

_‘No, it’s not that.’_

_‘Care to enlighten me?’_

_‘…I don’t want to hurt her._ ’ Dane said softly.

_‘So you’re a gentleman, then._ ’ Oressa said. ‘ _It’s been a mighty long time since I’ve seen the likes of that, especially here of all places._ ’ A pause. ‘ _I’m sorry._ ’

_‘Why?’_

_‘Because it won’t be long before you come to see that this world’s no place for a gentleman.’_

Nadene was gone within a few weeks, just as she’d said. And when Dane slipped into the back corner of Moroggo’s one foggy evening, he found her there, waiting with her arms around a dark-haired man beside the stage. There was one last piece of Arya Stark that was imprisoned by No One that night, a strange, unrecognized aspect that sunk, resigned, as the door to her mind shut against it and she realized that she’d opened the tear in her own heart by trying to protect the trauma in someone else’s.

She had learned quite enough.

When she returned to the House of Black and White, she was greeted as The Gentleman. That was how they’d address her from that point on; it was not up for discussion. She didn’t bother to ask how the Kindly Old Man knew about her conversation with Oressa; it didn’t matter. He’d been right from the start, when he’d told her that she hadn’t known anything.

No. It was _Arya Stark_ who hadn’t known anything. And that’s when No One decided things would turn out for the better if she just locked her away for good.

Except now she was trying to break free again. With all of her pride and loyalty and anger and memories and goddam loneliness and _hurt_.

She sighed and kicked a rock down the street, heading towards the docks.

“-I said I’m going home. Now leave me alone!”

There was a shuffle, and in the darkened mist ahead she could see the flash of a small blade arcing out toward a pair of swaggering bravos who were crowding a small, pale woman with white hair.

It seemed Arya Stark’s memories would win out tonight.


	5. The Lady and Grey

**AN: For those who have been so patiently waiting, I thank you. Hopefully I've made it worth your while.**

 

**........**

 

She was cornered because she hadn’t wanted to go home.

The sun was starting to set by the time she and the others had gotten the Volantene refugees settled in the hightower safehouse in Drowned Town, and she’d started to make her way northwest toward the Canal of Heroes. But then she remembered the caravan traders from southern Essos had pulled into harbor earlier, and suddenly intricately carved wooden boxes full of fresh spices held far more appeal than a swift return to a home full of people staring at her with concern and pity while sporting the injuries they’d sustained on her behalf. So she’d headed back down south, and spent the better part of an hour filling a canvas bag that had been brimming with lemons only a few short hours ago with earthy, rich seasonings from the far corners of the eastern continent.

And then there was the swan ship. It had been a beautiful piece of craftsmanship from bow to stern.

Larger and lighter than any of the trading vessels anchored at port, the swan ship had billowing white sails so large that it could outrun any galley with a strong wind behind it, with an agility that bespoke of a bird in flight rather than a ship at sea. Left in still, becalmed waters however, the swan ship became helpless; slowly drifting to shore with only the gentle pull of the current to guide it.

Daenerys’ mind had become like the swan ship she so admired, the wind of the day’s purpose having died down and leaving her adrift in the shame of all that she’d run from.

Twilight descended as she stared at all of the other ships docked at the harbor, each slowly rocking and rising as the tide started to come in. _If I were at sea, Viserys could never find me_ , she thought to herself. _Not even with a crown and an army. He’d never be able to touch me again._

Reality’s cold steel cut through her reverie as she realized she had no idea where in the city Viserys was now. It was unlikely that he’d left the Purple Harbor district; he certainly had enough money to keep himself well-lodged while waiting for his ship from Dorne, and he despised the common areas of the city that he considered beneath him. But he also knew that Dany loved those quaint corners, and if he’d set his mind to find her she was in exactly the first place he’d think to look.

Tightening her grip on her satchel of spices she started a brisk clip, weaving through the last of the vendor stalls that were packing up for the evening and heading for the main western thoroughfare. _Stupid, stupid, stupid!_ Daenerys chided herself. Even without the threat of Viserys lurking around every corner, there was still the fact that every Braavosi knew that nights in the lagoon city belonged to courtesans and stuffed-shirt, swaggering bravos. Home, for all of the trepidation it evoked in her, was still better than dealing with any of _that_.

But deal with that she would.

She heard a wolf-whistle to her right, and turned to see two brightly clad, feather-capped bravos striding toward her, hands on the pommels of their rapiers.

“Excuse me miss,” the taller of the two, a thin man with a large nose flagged her down. “My friend and I were wondering if you already had companionship for the evening?”

Dany shook her head, waving them off. “I’m sorry, but I think you have the wrong idea. I’m just going home.”

She swerved to pass them, when the smaller of the pair scowled and spit down on the ground beside her. “Lysene whores are all the same. As if a little bit of watered-down Valyrian blood somehow makes them special.”

_Whore._

Daenerys stopped mid-step, her hand instinctively reaching for the small dagger she carried to cut lemons and scar the tattoos off of slaves. “And you would know all about _whores_ , wouldn’t you? After all, it’s not as if any woman would ever lay with a fraction of a man like you of her own choosing.” She tossed a look of withering disgust over her shoulder, then continued on her way.

There had been a few moments of stunned silence left in her wake, and then a shuffle of graceless feet as they caught up with her. A rough hand grabbed her arm. “I think you owe my friend there an apology, _whore_ ,” the tall one said menacingly.

Dany grit her teeth and drew her dagger. “I think I’ve given your _friend_ everything he deserves already.” She shook his hand off of her arm, and lashed out with her dirk. “I said I’m going home. Now leave me alone!”

“Interesting.” A quiet voice broke in.

Dany looked up to see choppy brown bangs hanging over a pair of stormy grey eyes. The twin tempests held her a moment, as if looking straight through her, before turning to look at each of the bravos that had been accosting her in turn.

“It seems you’re breaking the rules,” the grey-eyed interloper said to them in that same quiet voice. “She carries no sword. Which means she’s not out to pick a fight, and is of no concern to either of you.” The steel eyes narrowed. “Now me, on the other hand,” a thumb brushed the hilt of a rapier hanging from a slim waist, “I’m _always_ out to pick a fight.”

The shorter bravo reached for his blade, and his thin friend pulled him back, nearly knocking him off balance. “Stop it you idiot!” he hissed. “Don’t you know who that is? Just look at that scar!”

Dany’s eyes followed the same trail as the hot-headed bravo’s, landing on the long, thick scar that ran the length of forehead to jaw on her cryptic savior’s face.

_The ghoul who bloodied the First Sword._

It had to be; the young water dancers had just been talking about another duel between the two when she’d gone to meet _The Lady Issia_ , and there was a fresh cut across the bridge of this one’s nose. Likely a parting gift from Qarro Volentin.

Recognition dawning on the short bravo’s features, he stepped back into a bow. “Beggin’ your pardon,” he said nervously, “it was my mistake. Hard to see tonight, in the fog. Thought she was armed.” He turned to Daenerys and lowered his head deferentially. “My apologies, miss. Please get home safe.”

Before another word could be exchanged the two rushed off, leaving Dany with the deathly stranger.

Daenerys felt her hands start to tremble around her dagger, just as they had earlier when she’d been trying to clean Viserys off of herself in the large heated tub. “I didn’t need your help!” she exclaimed, not even noticing as her bag of spices fell to the ground.

Grey eyes trailed over to her knife. “Yes, I can see now that you had everything under control,” the soft voice said with a hint of amusement. “Here.” The ghoul dropped to one knee and picked up her satchel, holding it out to her.

Dany reached out and snatched the bag, leaving the ghoul’s hand hanging in mid-air. She felt her heart clench in her chest, and she struggled to catch her breath. _Whore. He called me a whore, just like Viserys._ Unbidden, she saw flashes of torn silk and the high, dark oak beams that lined the ceiling of her room. She suddenly felt dizzy.

Lean arms wrapped around her as she stumbled forward. She took in a breath of leather, linen and seabreeze, and bit her bottom lip as she fought tears pinpricking the corner of her eyes. “You smell like the sea,” she heard herself mumble foolishly, in a voice too small for a Targaryen.

“I just arrived dockside this afternoon.” Death’s servant said simply.

“I’m sorry for snapping at you,” Daenerys murmured as she pulled herself away. “It’s been… a difficult day.”

“I understand.” The ghoul said with an unexpected tenderness. “I’ll walk you home if you’d like. You still have a ways to go yet, and there are plenty more no different than those two out prowling now.”

Her first instinct was to decline, to thank the stranger for the offer but insist that she’d be fine on her own. But her courage for the day had already been spent, and at that moment the thought of continuing on in the thickening fog alone filled her with new dread. “How do you know I have a ways to go?” she asked instead.

“You’re from Purple Harbor.” There was a calm certainty to the subdued voice that Dany found soothing.

“Am I? That’s quite a presumption.”

A warm hand took her own. “You’ve dressed for the docks, certainly… but you don’t carry their scent on you. You wear your hair down rather than pulled back, and your hands,” a fingertip brushed across Dany’s palm, “are too smooth to belong to a woman from a poorer district.” Her hand was released, and she immediately felt an unwelcome chill surround it. “So you’re a lady of Purple Harbor, and a long way from home for this time of night.”

“I… well, you’re a long way from the House of Black and White, for any time at _all_.” Dany said defensively.

“I am. Because I wasn’t going there.”

_Oh_. _Of course_. Daenerys felt her reprisal begin to dissipate on the salt-tanged wind. “Where _were_ you going?” She asked, before she could think to stop herself.

The ghoul was quiet a moment, considering. “Moroggo’s,” was the eventual response.

A dockside tavern. What on earth would a servant of the Many-Faced God go there for? Unless…

“You were going to kill someone, then?” Daenerys asked softly.

A furrowed brow and quick shake of the head in response. “No. I just… I think maybe it’s just been a difficult day all around.”

_No denial. So they **are** killers for hire then, as well as servants of their ‘god’._ _Lylah was right._

But maybe assassins could bear grief just as much as exiled princesses.

“I am from Purple Harbor,” Dany conceded. “Which is the exact opposite direction from Moroggo’s.”

“Good,” the stranger said, turning around with her. “Because really, that’s the last place in the world I should be anyways.”

They walked together, side by side through the midnight mist that enveloped the Titan’s city. Braziers and torches were lit, candles were set in windowpanes, and bawdy music from inns and brothels started to echo through the streets. Bravos strut throughout the thoroughfare, each tipping their pointed caps respectfully in the ghoul’s direction before clearing a path, and painted women winked and blew kisses from their corners. This was a Braavos that Dany had often heard about but never knew; a Braavos that was ruled by its underworld.

And if the underworld ran Braavos when darkness fell, the ghoul was its eventide Sealord.

_Is it like this for all of them when they leave that dichotomous House? Or is it just this one in particular they regard so highly?_

Daenerys lost count of how many people came up to the grey-eyed killer, bowing and introducing themselves before moving off to the side again. Finally, after nearly a dozen, she broke their silence to ask. “Why do they all… do that?” she motioned with her hands.

A dark brow rose. “You don’t know why?”

Dany shook her head.

“Word got out that if we know a person, we can’t be ordered to send them to the Many-Faced God if he calls upon them. So now whenever any of us goes out… it’s like this.” The stranger stopped mid-stride and turned to face Daenerys. “So,” steel eyes fell upon her again, “do you want to tell me your name?”

Daenerys closed the gap between them, undaunted. “Only if you tell me yours first.”

A flicker of surprise, ever so brief – but she caught it.

“We have no names,” was the gruff response. “And I am guessing that you already knew that. So why ask?”

“Because when you’ve taken me home I want to thank you, and it’s difficult to do that if I don’t even know what to call you.”

Dany could have sworn she saw a slight softening in the hard eyes that held her. “ ‘Ghoul’ is the name most in Purple Harbor give us.”

“Well I am not one of them. And I have no wish to refer to you by that title.”

There was a long pause. “Then call me whatever you wish… if it means so much to you to name me.”

“It does. And I will.”

“So be it.” The stranger gave a slight nod as they started over the northern bridge.

Daenerys stole another glance at her escort as they crossed over the canal. It was a rare thing, to see a woman who served the Many-Faced God, though from a distance it would be difficult to tell as much. She was almost wolfish in appearance; and the scar that marked her as Death’s own only added to her predatory appeal. Taut muscles lined her slim frame, and she wore the same loose garb as all of the other water dancers she saw keeping order in the daylight hours.

“Wondering about the scar?” the killer asked, partially reading her thoughts.

Dany felt her cheeks warm at having been caught, and found herself grateful for the cover of darkness. “I was just thinking,” she said carefully, “that I haven’t seen many women serving in the House of Black and White.”

“Nor will you. It’s a… conflict of interest, for most.”

“What do you mean?”

The ghoul raked a hand through her hair. “Women give life, bearing children.” She said. “You can only serve one master. You either give life, or you give death. For most women, to choose death goes against their very nature.”

“And for you?”

“That was never a problem for me. I know who – _what_ – I am.”

They crossed into the Purple Harbor district, and Dany had only a few more moments before she reached home. She knew she was likely treading on thin ice, but pressed on anyways. “Do you… hate life?” she asked earnestly.

The faintest trace of a smile, and then: “Life and death are not enemies, my lady. They are angry lovers, one constantly chasing after the other in an unbroken circle. And all of us – well, we’re just trapped within their constant quarrel.” Her voice lowered to a whisper. “That’s what the Lifebound refuse to accept.”

The ‘Lifebound’ – every religious faction that revered the sanctity of life above all things, and had given the ghouls their demeaning moniker.

“I see,” Daenerys breathed. “And that’s what all of you believe…?”

“That’s what _I_ believe. I can’t rightly speak for anyone else.”

The stranger stopped in front of Dany’s house. “This is where you live, then?” It was barely a question.

“Yes, but,” Dany’s brow creased, “how did you know that?”

“Your stride shortened as we approached. You slowed to a near stop as soon as I passed in front there.” She tilted her head towards the great red door. “So I figured this must be it.”

“You’re incredibly perceptive, has anyone ever told you that? It’s almost frightening.”

“Do I scare you after all?”

“You do not, Grey.”

A blink of surprise. “Grey?”

“Mhhm. Like your eyes.” She looked up to meet the slate gaze of her inspiration.

Though she couldn’t be entirely sure under night’s cover, she was almost sure Grey flushed under her stare. “In that case, should I call you ‘Violet’ then?”

“My name is Dany,” she warmly supplied. “Thank you for seeing me home, Grey.”

“Dany,” the assassin rolled the name off of her tongue, as if tasting it as much as speaking it. “I’ll remember that.” She took Dany’s hand and opened it, pressing a gold dragon and a marked iron coin into her palm.

Daenerys let out a slow breath, looking down at the coins in confusion. “What are these?”

“The gold is a debt repaid. And the iron… consider that interest. I’ve seen your home, and you know where mine is. If you ever need anything, go there with that coin. Ask for ‘The Gentleman’.” The bare hint of a grin tugged at the corner of her mouth. “If you intend to continue enjoying Braavos’ nightlife, I highly recommend that you trade that in for some water dancing lessons from me. Your paring knife is not exactly inspiring terror.”

Daenerys felt her hackles start to rise at the jape, until she realized just what was being offered. “You would train me?” Viserys had never so much as allowed her to hold a sword, even when she’d reminded him that their ancestor he so admired had married a sister who wielded a Valyrian steel blade. To be instructed by the ghoul who trained with the First Sword himself – that was no trivial gesture.

“If you’d like.”

Dany felt her brief indignation ebb away. “Speaking of,” her eyes flickered over the cut on Grey’s forearm, a thin ribbon of black against her skin under the light of the moon. “I could stitch that for you, If you wanted.”

The assassin lifted her arm, glancing down. “It’s alright; it’s not that deep. Just a reminder not to get careless.”

“Oh.” Dany felt slightly disappointed for some reason. “Well.. if you change your mind…”

“Thank you.” Grey said with surprising sincerity, before turning around and walking away into the night that she and her kind reigned over so entirely.

Dany watched her for a long moment, and then let out a sigh before opening the red door.


	6. The Spider and the Handmaiden

Varys re-read the scroll, then set it down with a sigh.

“Trouble in Braavos?” Illyrio asked, thick yellow brow raised as he drank deeply from his goblet.

“Word from our good friend Willem Darry. I’m afraid that we may have brought him into the fold a little too late – it seems Viserys took the liberty of defiling Daenerys in his absence.”

“Hmm.” The magister gave an acknowledging grunt. “Can’t say I’m surprised. Set a boy in a confectionery and he’s bound to pocket a few sweets.”

“Most boys have the common sense to avoid indulging in the pleasure of a few treats when they know they can own the entire shop if they would only refrain for a while.”

Fat, jeweled fingers reached out to pick up a decanter of Arbor red, and poured with a surprising delicacy that struck odds with the inflated size of their owner. “Most boys aren’t sons of a mad king, born with a royal sense of entitlement.”

“True enough.”

“So, what are you going to do now?”

The Spider neatly folded the scroll back up again, sliding it into one of the many small pockets he had stitched into his silk sleeves. “I’m going to thank Ser Darry for informing us of this unfortunate occurrence, and tell him the offer still stands.”

“But you can’t. Without her virtue, she is no fit bride for a king.”

“ _Virtue_ in that particular sense can be lost so very easily, and under the most innocent of circumstances. Such a common thing, really, for a woman riding a horse to be indelicately torn when taking a jump over rough terrain.”

Illyrio’s fleshy lips pulled into a thin line. “That is a very dangerous gambit, my friend.”

“These are dangerous times. And we’ve come too far now to allow for such a petty derailment.”

“Petty to _you_ , perhaps, all things considered.” Sausage-sized digits began to absently stroke a prong of a meticulously oiled saffron beard. “The condition of a woman is of no concern to one such as yourself. But to a man who is meant to rule Seven Kingdoms, well, he can’t be expected to make the land his own if he can’t even lay claim to his wife.”

Varys snorted derisively. True, there _were_ certain things he could never fully understand due to his cutting, but he did not need to be whole to know that this particular custom served no true purpose other than to bolster ego. It was as archaic and undignified as a circle of drunks arguing over who got to break the seal on a bottle of expensive wine – each cup would provide fine pleasure regardless, and none who tasted of it would know the difference.

But Illyrio would never see it that way, at least, not in _this_ instance.

Varys reached for a sugared date. “Aegon will have far more trouble claiming his lands than any wife. A union with Daenerys will ease his strains considerably.”

“On that much, we agree.” Illyrio drank again, a purple bead trailing down his chin. “But even if Daenerys were to marry him now, I can’t see Viserys keeping quiet about his conquest.”

The Spider savored the eastern delectable before swallowing. “No, he assuredly won’t. However, he _is_ mad. And if Daenerys were to marry Aegon against her brother’s wishes, retribution and angry railing complete with false accusations would be entirely expected.”

“And a wise man would disregard it all,” Illyrio finished.

“Precisely.”

The heavyset magister was quiet for a few thoughtful moments, looking down into his cup. “How is he?” he asked softly.

Such a simple, earnest question – but Varys knew that in that moment Illyrio was not asking as his co-conspirator contemplating their measure of success, but as an estranged father longing for word of his only son.

“He looks like Serra,” the eunuch answered. “Enough so that it would re-open that wound for you, old friend. But,” he glanced over to the statue of Illyrio’s youthful self, resplendent in the water of his marble pool, “he also has your former grace and strength.”

Illyrio gave a slight nod in appreciation and let it go at that, understanding full well the risks even a single moment of nostalgia in the wrong place could pose. “Have we really managed to do this, then?”

Another question with a veritable Pandora’s Box full of answers.

It felt like a lifetime ago, when he’d first laid eyes on the distinctly Targaryen features of Illyrio’s infant son. His beautiful young wife Serra, a former Lysene bedwarmer, had been clearly Blackfyre in all but name, and gifted her countenance to the great Magister’s heir.

It was in that moment that Varys knew his every dream for the realm could be realized.

_‘You would make my son king?’_

_‘I would make your son a **worthy** king.’ _

For that was something Westeros had not truly had since the days of Wise King Jaehaerys I. For nearly three centuries, the Targaryen dynasty had rent and bled Westeros through countless wars spurned on by madness, bastardry and rebellion. The years of violence and vanity had slowly made the Seven Kingdoms sallow; until poverty and insignificance became all that was expected for most. Those who were clever enough to side with the winning dragons retained houses that lived to see another generation, and those who were not ended up damning their entire lineage to become nothing more than a footnote in history. Smallfolk suffered the same regardless of who lost or won; it was their sons bearing arms for banners that weren’t their own, and their daughters raped regardless of who they’d sworn fealty to. They broke their backs toiling in fields to harvest food they were seldom permitted to eat, and bore the scars of hunting game that graced every table but their own.

Some lords were more benevolent than others to be sure, and some kings did lead the land into bouts of temporary prosperity, but it was always only a matter of time before the banners were raised again, and both the realm and its inhabitants were crushed under the heels of armored warboots. How could it be any other way when the entire system was so fundamentally broken? Men who had no connection to the people populating their lands were placed in charge of them, mantled with the responsibility of making life-altering decisions for the entire lot of them every single day. Sons of kings grew up in castles, never once having walked with the fishermen who caught their supper, or with the seamstress who tailored their silks. They never cared to know the grief of a widowed wife or the misfortune of an orphan. They were born into destiny, each one of them, and tutored from an early age on the greatness from which they descended, and challenged on how to exceed the histories of those who came before.

None of them dreamed of achieving renown through peace and abundance for their people. It was always Fire and Blood.

Or Fury.

King Robert Baratheon was supposed to usher in a whole new era for the Seven Kingdoms; a ferocious beacon of power and strength that had risen up to depose the final mad Targaryen king that Westeros could bear to endure. To his credit, he was a great improvement over his predecessor – though considering the insanity that so tightly gripped Aerys Targaryen II, that in itself was a meagre achievement. The man was a warrior down to his bones, and putting a crown on his head never changed his militant mindset – he was a reckless soldier, living as if any day could be his last. His heart was on the battlefield, and the only time he took to his responsibilities as a monarch was when he secured his realm by crushing the Greyjoy rebellion. It was his brother Stannis and his Hand Jon Arryn who truly governed, and their combined efforts were the only thing that kept the kingdom from careening into the rocks that Robert’s excesses continually steered it toward.

It was somewhere in between Aerys burning his subjects alive with wildfire and Robert passing out drunk between a whore’s pair of tits that Varys realized people were not born to be king – they were _made_ to be king. And that nearly every king that had come and gone for hundreds of years had fallen so painfully short of the title because they were never properly moulded; the laws of succession had ensured that every new king was crowned simply because of an itch in the former king’s pants that had been relieved in a properly sanctioned cunt.

It was an understanding that haunted him.

As Varys travelled, he’d catch himself watching tradesmen of solid reputation and good temperament, wondering how much more they could have been had they only been given the same tutelage the nobility were afforded. Sometimes he’d stare unabashedly through the curtains of his coach, envisioning how much different everything would be if there was a man on the throne who had risen up from the lowest of echelons, forged by the realities of poverty, desperation and hope as much as dreams of greatness. A man who had spent as much of his life surrounded by the common folk as he did by the entitled elite; a man that remained grounded even as he was elevated.

He had thought his dream would be nothing more than a fantasy – until he looked into the purple eyes of his dear friend’s infant son, and imagined a way to bear a young man born of a once-penniless Bravo and a Lysene whore all the way to Iron Throne itself.

A plan that his one true friend believed in enough to hand over his only child, trusting in the expert weaving of the Spider’s web to both keep him safe and raise him to glory.

Varys would not let his sacrifice be in vain.

“Yes. We _have_ done this,” Varys said, meeting Illyrio’s eyes. “We need only set the final pieces in play.”

“And if he and Daenerys do not wed? Will the Seven Kingdoms still accept his claim?”

“It will pose greater challenge in that case, to be certain. However, do keep in mind that for all of this time Jon Connington himself has fully believed that Aegon is Rhaegar’s trueborn son, and you’d be hard pressed to find anyone who was more devoted to Rhaegar that wasn’t sharing his bed.”

“Some say a place in Rhaegar’s bed is _exactly_ what Jon Connington wanted.”

“Which only makes our.. arrangement.. all the more impressive. For him to have been that entirely fixated on Rhaegar, and still unable to tell that the boy he’s been mentoring was not the dragon’s own issue is a good augury of things to come once he reaches Westeros.”

“Hrmph.” The Magister reached for a wedge of herbed cheese. “And what about Ser Willem? Will he be likewise convinced?”

Varys gave a small shrug. “Even if he is not fully, he will allow himself to believe for Daenerys’ sake.” The fact that he so readily accepted Varys’ story about switching the babes before the sack of King’s Landing was proof enough that the man _did_ want an alternative at this precarious point.

“So you’ll write to Ser Willem?”

“Yes. I’ll send a messenger out with our reply this afternoon, along with a gift for the young princess. I’d like her to become kindly disposed to our overtures.”

“Do you mean _that_ gift, then?”

“I do.” Varys stood up, already mentally wordsmithing his reply.

As always, he served the realm.

 

**……..**

 

The house was silent except for the occasional thunking of the sellsword sentry’s boots.

Lylah turned beneath the sheets in the quiet dark, staring out the window of her room into the thick lagoon fog of midnight, and continued to pray.

She prayed for Ser Willem, who grew more tired and pained by the day.

She prayed for Luco, who still blamed himself for not being strong enough to stop Viserys, despite the fact he was barely more than a boy.

She prayed for her fellow slave-runners, and all those shepherding in the ships returning to Braavos.

She prayed for every soul who’d just found new freedom in the Titan’s city, and for all of those who longed for it while remaining trapped in their chains.

But most of all, she prayed for Dany.

Since the day of Viserys’ assault, Lylah had seen a change in the usually warm princess. Though her smile still lit up a room, she flashed it less often, and it rarely reached her eyes. She had thrown herself fervently into their work at the docks, tirelessly negotiating with trusted captains for more space within their holds to be paid for at her own expense, and unshackling new arrivals with an intensity that made every twist of the master key _personal_. The Targaryen had come to understand that in some respects, she had been groomed to be as much a slave as they were. And that the ‘master’ she was like to end up with would be no more inclined to show her kindness than theirs had been.

And then there was the ghoul.

The night Dany was escorted home unscathed, Lylah had thanked her Silent God along with any others that would listen for the House of Black and White and all of its ghastly servants. But as the days passed, gratitude for Daenerys’ safe return was slowly replaced by another concern: the princess’ newfound fascination with the controversial House.

Her intrigue was not obvious; living under the constant threat of ‘waking the dragon’ had schooled Daenerys well in keeping her true thoughts and intentions buried beneath the surface. But Lylah had been with Dany since she was just a girl of a few summers, and she could see through the cleverly crafted walls she erected. On their last few trips to the docks Dany had opted to take the long way around, avoiding the bridge over the Canal of Heroes and instead heading south past the Isle of the Gods, then circling around the House of Black and White before heading west beyond the Sept by the Sea. Had she openly stared at the dichotomous temple as they passed, Lylah would have written the whole thing off as a desire to change up their routines in order to avoid a possible encounter with Viserys, but the furtive glances she instead graced it with gave her away. She had gone that route specifically to pass that dark cathedral.

At first she worried that dread had driven Daenerys to consider the unthinkable. Every Braavosi knew of the pool that lay just behind those ivory and ebony doors, and the gift it granted those who drank from its waters. On the fourth day of travelling their new route, Lylah had been about to confront Dany on her macabre contemplations when voices rang out in the air, and a pack of young bravos rushed past them, heading towards the Sealord’s Palace:

_‘The ghoul’s back! Just went through the Emerald Gate! Gonna duel the first sword again!’_

_‘Hurry up, I want to get to the seawall in time to lay a wager!’_

_‘Come on move!’_

Dany had grabbed her arm then, pulling her along with the crowd. “Come on Lylah,” she smiled, “that’s Grey. We have time yet; let’s go watch.”

Gripping her satchel, Lylah had run along with her wayward charge. “Who’s Grey?” she asked through labored breaths. “I thought ghouls didn’t have names?”

Daenerys just laughed. “They don’t; I had to name her myself when she brought me home.”

And with that, Lylah’s previous suspicions had been cast aside to make way for brand new ones.

By the time they reached the seawall that looked down on the Palace courtyard, ‘Grey’ and the First Sword were already in the heat of engagement, thin blades arcing and piercing in a blur as each sought the advantage. Dany gripped her hand as she watched the bout intently, squeezing it every time Qarro landed a strike.

Lylah could barely repress a sigh.

The First Sword took the match as he always did, though he left it with a torn, bloodied tunic while Grey left with a noticeable limp.

“Do you think she’s alright, Lylah?” Daenerys asked hesitantly, watching the ghoul’s hitch.

“I think she’s smarting, but she’ll be fine.” The handmaiden replied objectively.

“Do you think maybe I should-”

“My Lady. She knew what she was getting into. There’ll be no lasting harm.”

“Of course.” Dany shook her head and turned away as they strode down the slope of the seawall.

“She fought well, I will grant that,” Lylah said with a smile, unwilling to dampen the princess’ good spirits. “I can see why the young bravos get so riled when they face off.”

_Just as I can see the way you were looking at her, my lady – and what a world of trouble we are all in if that doesn’t quickly change._


	7. The Gentleman and the Wharf King

**AN: I want to genuinely thank absolutely everyone who has taken the time to comment, review, and encourage as I write this fic. I know some of you have concerns about whether or not I am going to re-tread some of my other plotlines with this, and I can only assure you that no, this fic is an entirely different beast than my other works – but I hope it will end up just as well-received.**

**……..**

 

The Faceless Men were not omniscient, but it was with good reason that many believed they were. Just as the God of Death had many different faces, so too did he have many eyes.

And some of those eyes watched from the most unlikely of places.

Drowned Town had once been one of the wealthiest districts in Braavos, until the weight of its own prosperous excesses began to drive the island back into the sea that spawned it. The years became marked by saltwater inches, until slowly the brackish creep began to flood over the surface, drowning streets and rising through homes and businesses. Even as residents fled to the upscale Purple Harbor district, mitigating some of the great burden the peninsula bore, the damage had already been done – the sea would gradually reclaim that which it had given, leaving a ghost town rippling beneath the waves at the end of a broken bridge that had snapped after years of strain.

But all was not yet lost. The descent was slow, and skilled hands had built strong foundations. The highest towers and uppermost floors of tallest structures of Drowned Town still remained above sea level, serving as asylum for criminals and housing for the great city’s poorest citizens. Makeshift floating docks connected these bastions of poverty both to each other and Braavos’ mainland, and the occasional ferryman would circle around the sunken community when business was slow or he felt charitable.

Grey eyes narrowed in the dark atop one of these elevated refuges, further out than the rest and angled at an obvious slant. No One kicked off her black boots and unclasped her belt, laying steel with leather and pulled in a few deep breaths, billowing her lungs. The night was cold and the water even moreso, but it would be nothing compared to the snapping frosts and frigid gales her body had acclimated to in times best forgotten. Taking one last yawning breath, she leapt off of edge and dove into the inky black, her thin frame cutting through the still surface like a silent knife.

She fought the urge to tense as she was submerged in icy brine and kicked her feet, propelling downward. As she plunged, she reached an arm out, her fingertips searching for the edge of a familiar break in the slick stones of the wall of the tower. After a few more swift kicks she found it, then arced her arm and gripped the ledge, pulling herself into the wide opening that had once held a beautiful stained glass window. Once beyond the masonry frame and inside the flooded fortress, she swam upward, instinct guiding her until she broke through the murk in front of the remaining half of a collapsed spiral staircase.

Catching her breath, she tread water in front of the mildewed planks, noticing a dim light softly flickering up on the landing above. Good. At least he’d lit a candle or two this time; the last time she’d come she’d nearly impaled her foot on a rusted strip of fallen handrail waiting for her eyes to adjust. Shaking her head and rubbing the water from her eyes she hoisted herself up on to the bottom stair and started her waterlogged ascent upwards, bracing herself for a fall every time she felt a rotting step sag beneath her feet. Fortune favored her, and damp planks gripped by corroded nails held on a little bit longer. When she reached the top she stopped in the doorway, pausing herself on the threshold.

He’d kill her if she stepped beyond it without invitation.

“ _Valar morgulis_ ,” she said, slipping into the continent’s old mother Valyrian as she stared at the broad back of a man seated at a small wooden table.

“ _Valar dohaeris_ ,” came the heavily accented reply.

_“I’ve come that you should be his eyes, so I may be his hand.”_

A hearty chuckle. “ _Come in, Gentleman_.” Valyrian faltered and gave way to the Braavosi tongue once again. “Join me for a drink.”

The Gentleman strode into the modest living chamber, wringing out her wet sleeves as the strong man turned his head, blindfolded eyes looking sightlessly over his shoulder as he gestured for her to take the empty seat across from him. She accepted his offer, and found herself once again face to face with none other than the Wharf King.

Standing over six feet tall with wavy, graying hair, a crooked nose, and a thick scar that ran up from his left ear and across his forehead before tapering behind the shell of his right, the Wharf King was a man most believed to be myth – the shadowy figure behind a vast network of beggars, cripples, cutpurses and other unfortunates looking to make some coin in exchange for service in the information trade. His operatives, known throughout the city as ‘wharf rats’, were a living collective of intelligence on the streets of Braavos, its happenings, and its inhabitants.

After two decades of operation and countless wharf rat arrests, the Sea Blades had never once come close to catching the elusive Wharf King. Those who served him understood the need for silence, and they all found imprisonment to be preferable to anything that may await them if they even so much as considered an act of betrayal.

A Faceless Man was never to be trifled with, no matter what the capacity in which he served.

The Wharf King’s large hand poured a rich lager into a mug and placed it before her. Then he leaned down and opened the top of a hand-woven basket, pulling out a rounded loaf of dark pumpernickel bread followed by a small ceramic bowl of freshly churned cream. A flick of his wrist saw the blade he had concealed in his sleeve into his palm, and he began to cut the dense loaf into thick slices.

“It’s been a while,” he said as he slathered soft cream across the length of a generous slice of the burnt umber bread, and then held it out to her. “I was starting to think the Many-Faced God’s young prodigy had already outgrown my humble talents.”

No One spoke her thanks, and took the proffered wedge. “I am no prodigy,” she said softly, “and there will never come a day when any of us can do without you.” She lifted her bread to her lips, then paused before taking a bite. “And you know it.”

She was granted a knowing smirk in response. “I do. But sometimes it’s just nice to hear it anyways.” A second slice was coated with butter, and the Wharf King halved it in a single bite. He sighed in obvious relish as he chewed, enjoying the morsel in a way that only someone who had sacrificed all of life’s other personalized pleasures could. “Casso’s down over the eastern side of the Long Canal – best bloody bread in the whole damn city. She makes it by hand you know, kneading dough while the rest of us dumb louts are still sleeping the night off.”

No One grinned. “Sounds like you’re in love. Have you confessed, yet? Told her how much you long to feel her burly baker’s arms wrapped tight around you after a long night of pilfering secrets for the God of Death and his humble acolytes?”

A bushy brow furrowed beneath its fabric veil. “You’re a cruel little bastard, you know that?” he countered lightheartedly.

_Bastard._

She saw a flash of a young man with a face the mirror of her own, dressed all in black and mounting up to head North with a growing white direwolf by his side.

Her jaw briefly clenched, and No One shoved the image behind her mental partition. As the edge of the man’s black cloak slid behind her wall, she laughed and took a drink of her brew. “Which is exactly why you like me,” she said.

“Makes you more entertaining than most, at the very least. We had a few interesting months together, you and I.”

She nodded. “That we did.” And it was true.

The Kindly Old Man had sent her to the Wharf King only a few days after she’d left Oressa’s brothel. Having studied the secret depths of men and women and the hidden desires that fueled both their physical and emotional exchanges, it was time again to augment her dexterity. ‘ _You will learn of the world beneath the surface of Braavos,_ ’ he’d said. _‘And how to touch it with an unseen hand.’_

She had learned all of that, and then some.

Bruised fingers and scarred knuckles educated her in sleight of hand, the pain coaching her until the Wharf King was satisfied that she was ready to ply her new trade out in the open. Every morning, he’d send her into the city with the name of one of Braavos’ wealthiest wives. Her task was to find the well-kept missus, wherever she may be, and take the matrimonial ring right from her finger without her notice. Then she was to bring the bejeweled bands back to the Wharf King as proof of her success.

He’d collected ten of these rings from her when he finally handed all of them back and gave her a new objective: return each to the finger of its rightful owner, without drawing any regard to herself.

It had taken her three full days to stage each return, and she’d nearly sabotaged her own efforts when she started to slide a wide ruby band up Talea Rennus’ thin digit while handing her a luxurious bolt of cloth, only to realize she’d mixed up her ring with equally crimson Shaera Torone’s. Feigned concern over a circling wasp bought her the distraction she needed to amend that error, and after rotund Shaera Torone woke up from her afternoon siesta to find her fat finger adorned once more, No One’s undertaking was complete.

To commemorate her success, the blindfolded King of the underworld took her out into the sunlight, and revealed all of the shadows hidden in plain sight to her. Ghoul-allied safehouses, abandoned cellars, underground tunnels, rooftop perches and hidden waterways that spanned from Silty Town all the way to the Sealord’s Palace – there was nothing she could not claim in service to the Many-Faced God.

As she served Braavos, so too would Braavos serve her.

He had her memorize winding passageways and the sharp turns of dank, subterranean channels, looping infrastructure and even false walls until her mind saw the entirety of the free city as a dual-layer map; light on dark, _theirs_ and _hers_.

Once she’d become competent in her navigational abilities, the Wharf King put her to the test by sending a dozen of the Sealord’s own Sea Blades after her.

Reeling from the unanticipated turn, they’d nearly caught her before instinct took over in the interest of self-preservation. One by one she lost them, cutting corners and clambering up the uneven bricks of aged storefronts, jumping rooftops and then vaulting through an attic window, sliding down the polished banister of a serpentine staircase and diving down into a cathouse cellar. She’d lain in a pile of unwashed sheets that smelled of stale sweat and cheap comfort until she heard the light footfalls of her pursuers fading away as they chased the wind in her stead.

When she returned to Drowned Town, she was commended for her evasive maneuvering, and then clasped into iron shackles.

_‘I have a gift for you,’_ The Wharf King said.

_‘This magnificent pair of matching bracelets? Really, you shouldn’t have.’_

_‘No, **this**.’_ And he handed her a rippling Valyrian steel lockpick. _‘There will come a time when you are faced with an adversary that you can’t outrun. And when that time comes, what you learn next will always set you free.’_

He’d left her to puzzle it out then, pulling out a leather book filled with embossed pages that his fingertips followed in place of his unseeing eyes and settling with a frothy mug of ale.

The manacles had been closed with a Myrish lock, and it took her the better part of an hour to master the three half-spins and careful pull it took to release the locking mechanism. When the shackles finally fell to her feet, the Wharf King merely got up and put them back on her. _‘Faster, this time.’_

Her fingers were sore but nimble, and this time it was only a few minutes before her chains hit the floor.

_‘Better. Now again, faster.’_

And on it went, until she was able to loose herself only seconds after being cuffed. Tyroshi locks followed the Myrish, and then Volantene, then Meereenese, then Lorathi, and finally a set of standard Westerosi shackles bookended the confining set. Her eyes stung with exhaustion and her hands bled by the time she was finished, but the approving nod she received in exchange for her efforts served to diminish her discomforts.

_‘Rest now. We’ll speak in the morning.’_

And speak they did. The next day she’d woken up to a veritable feast; the Wharf King’s table topped with sliced fruits, cheeses, a variety of breads and cuts of sausage, cream and sweet preserved spreads, fresh-squeezed juices and small, moist cakes of cocoa and nuts. _‘Come!’_ he bellowed, making a grand sweeping gesture with his arm. _‘Today we celebrate.’_

Grateful for his blindness so he could not see her wide eyes and slack jaw, No One took a seat with her mentor. _‘Celebrate what?’_

_‘The simple joy of surprise.’_

Suddenly starving, she began to select an assortment of delectable goods, knowing it could be a long time before she had the chance to partake of such a fine meal again. _‘I don’t understand.’_

_‘Of course you don’t. It is not until you spend some time outside of that temple that you come to understand that being No One does not require you to eschew finding any sort of peace in the Many-Faced God’s service. For example, I am no more someone today than I was yesterday, yet I can still look at all that you have accomplished in such a short period of time and feel a bit of wonder. There is no self within me to **claim** that feeling, yet I can partake of it as an outsider, the same way I wear a stranger’s face.’ _

_‘But you’re not exactly No One the way the rest of us are; you’re the Wharf King. Half of Braavos knows your name. And doesn’t that just make serving more difficult? …We’re not supposed to feel anything.’_

_‘And who is the Wharf King? No more than The Gentleman – mirage and blades. And as for how best to serve – that is your path to choose. But for now, we are kin you and I, products of the same House and servants of the same God. And as we are not yet scheduled to meet with the deity whom we serve, we shall eat, and consider it no failure if the taste is pleasant on our tongues.’_

They could not be friends; to claim a friendship would require a connection to self that each had forsaken. But the phantasms of many faces could acknowledge that they both walked the same road, headed toward the same end, and that sometimes a bit of good food, cold ale, and laughter lightened their steps.

For No One, it was more than enough.

_‘Can I ask you something?’_ The Gentleman inquired after eating her fill.

The Wharf King tightened his blindfold. _‘It’s about this, isn’t it?’_

_‘It is. I was just wondering… what happened?’_

_‘What do they say about it, back at the House of Black and White?’_

_‘Not much. I’ve heard some say it was an accident; that when they blinded you they’d gotten the dosage wrong, and couldn’t reverse the effect.’_

_‘Is that what **you** think happened?’ _

_‘No. They don’t make mistakes.’_

_‘You’re right; they don’t.’_ He took a moment before continuing, sifting through the memories of all the lives he’d temporarily lived until he found the common thread between them. _‘I did it to myself.’_

_‘What…?’_

_‘There were things I wanted to see, and I realized that my eyes were getting in the way. I couldn’t penetrate beyond the surface with them, and my reliance on them had dulled my other senses.’_

_‘But that makes no sense! How can your eyes hinder you from **seeing**?’_

He just gave her a smile. _‘We live our lives based on deception; the altering of appearance. People do not see truth, they see a superficial guile presented to them. You already know this. I needed to see past all of that, past the façade that surrounds us all, in order to better serve.’_

A man only needed to close his eyes forever in order to see through walls.

“So,” the Wharf King said smoothly, jarring the Gentleman back into the present. “To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?”

“I’ve come for your help,” the smaller ghoul spoke frankly.

“I thought as-” he stopped abruptly, holding up his hand in a bid for silence. He tilted his head, and then let out a sigh. “Won’t be more than a few weeks now before this place falls from its moorings. I hear the foundation giving.”

The Gentleman knew better than to question her host’s acute sense of hearing. “Do you know where you’ll go?”

“Aye. I have a few other haunts, though none that I like nearly so well as this one. Having a submerged front door does buy one a bit of peace.” He finished the last of his bread. “Now, what is it I can help you with?”

“I need to know if you or one of your wharf rats can get me a ticket to the Masquerade Ball the Sealord is hosting at his palace on the final night of the celebration of the Uncloaking.”

“There’s very little that I _can’t_ get my hands on, but I will say that will take some doing. Every one of those tickets are numbered and stamped, and they’ve been granted to only a select few.”

“And I need one, just the same.”

“You’ve been given a name, then?”

“I have. The Many-Faced God calls for Daeron Marrus.”

“By the bloody – ” The Wharf King’s mouth pulled into a grim line. “If anything goes wrong in this, the canals of Braavos will run red for weeks.”

“I know,” The Gentleman said somberly.

“Drink with me, as we consider the possible ramifications of our God’s demand. I will get you your ticket, a fine suit, and anything else you may need. It is not every day one is tasked with killing the Sealord’s only brother.”


	8. The Mockingbird and the Princess

**AN: This may seem out of left field to some, but there is always method in the madness…**

 

**………**

The Mockingbird was so named for its unique ability to sing the songs of the other birds surrounding it, acting as if it were one of them and in doing so, mocking their inability to tell the difference. Because of its natural guile, the bird was beloved by many different species; all believing that it was in fact one of their own regardless of any characteristics that may have presented it as otherwise. To them, it was only the song that mattered - the crisp chirping that so cleverly mimicked theirs and bespoke of a like-minded ally.

This clever ruse was why a mockingbird had so very many friends.

“Lord Petyr Baelish, my prince,” the broad captain spoke in an accented grumble, his longaxe consort ever present at his side, blocking the slender man behind him on the terrace.

Dark, bagged eyes glanced up in acknowledgement, and a swollen finger motioned. “See him through, Areo.”

The bearded Norvoshi stepped aside, his bladed bride no longer a cautionary third wheel. Giving the sentinel a gracious tilt of his head as he strode past, the Mockingbird took a seat beside prince Doran Martell – one of his very first melodious friends – as he stared out at the children playing within the Water Garden’s pools.

He waited with the prince in companionable silence, taking in the pleasant tang of air scented with citrus and the echoing sounds of laughter. This was the prelude to Doran Martell’s song, this silence brimming with philosophical reflection accompanied by the thrumming tension of burden, and it was a single note that the prince could hold for hours, some days.

Petyr hoped that today would not be one of those days.

“Elia’s children never had the chance to come play here,” the prince said somberly after a few moments had passed. “Sometimes I look down at the children in the water, and I will see a young one with sunbleached hair or pale skin, and I am reminded of them. I wonder if that is what they would have looked like, if they’d had the chance to grow even a little more. I wonder if they’d enjoy the blood oranges that grow by the pool; if they’d try to climb the trees to pick them like so many do when the sun is waning.”

_The aria of bereavement._ Lord Baelish knew this tune, and recognized it was meant to be a solo performance.

“For nineteen years I have waited, images of my sister and her children branded on my heart. I have held them there, cradling their memories even as they seared me within.” A light breeze picked up and Doran winced, the brush of it excruciating on his propped, gouty limbs. He waited, tensed in agony until the warm air was still once more. “And now, I fear that after all of this time and careful planning, I may end up only failing them again.”

Now it was time for the Mockingbird’s trill. “It is the soon arrival of Viserys that vexes you, then. And the rumors that have preceded him across the Narrow Sea.”

There was a slight narrowing of tired eyes, and the deepening of a frown line in response. “For nearly two decades I have held my tongue and kept the peace as my country and my kin have cried out for war. I have nursed my vengeance from its infancy, pouring the last of my life’s blood into it, even as my body fails me. And now, here at the very end, I am forced to consider the possibility that to avenge my loved ones, I may be unleashing another Mad King upon the Seven Kingdoms. That I may be binding my own daughter to the same insanity that provoked Robert’s Rebellion in the first place.”

“Disquieting thoughts to be sure, my prince. And a heavy burden to bear alone.” The Lord of the Fingers looked out across the treetops to the far edge of the Summer Sea. “Perhaps it’s time to allow a friend to help shoulder the load.”

“Dorne stands alone, as it always has.”

“And during the War of the Five Kings, that tenacious isolation served Dorne well. You stayed out of the conflict, and avoided losing good men in that bloodbath. But now we’re on the cusp of a new era. Behind the figurehead of Viserys Targaryen, Dorne is about to take control of the entirety of Westeros. But how long do you intend for Arianne to remain Queen with no true allies? If Viserys _is_ as mad as some claim, his rule will be a short one indeed.”

“Which is why I have no intention of leading Viserys to the Iron Throne until Arianne is with child,” the shaded prince said softly. “Once they are married I will keep them hidden until such a time as an heir is sure. Then I will grant the Dragon use of my generals and forces, and those of the sellsword companies I will hire to strengthen their numbers. When Viserys takes the Iron Throne, he will already have an heir whom the Kingdom will fall to in the event of his untimely demise. Arianne will remain Lord Protector in trust until the youth comes of age.”

“Unless she has a daughter,” the Mockingbird countered, striking beneath the plate. “And then you will need to hope that the realm will endure his madness long enough for Arianne to bear him another child. And that’s if he hasn’t already summoned his sweet sister home from Essos to take her place as his second wife and gifted _her_ with a son, as some of the more malicious hearsay claims he may very well end up doing.”

“You’re a fool if you think I’d allow Arianne to be usurped, Lord Baelish,” the prince said. “After all this time, I would think you’d know me better by now.”

“Forgive me, my prince,” Lord Baelish deferred, adeptly changing his tune. “You are the last man I’d consider to be a fool in any regard. I only mean to point out that when this plan took shape fourteen years ago, things were much simpler. Viserys was a boy then, of gentle hand and reasonable mind. There was no telling how the coin the gods flipped at his birth had landed.”

“No, there wasn’t,” Doran said with a sigh. “And yet I set my course. I must steer carefully and see it through. I have already been robbed of my vengeance against Tywin Lannister; I will not spare the rest.”

“Nor should you, my prince. But perhaps there is another way to secure both the collapse of House Lannister and Arianne’s place as Queen. A way that does not hinge on the questionable sanity of the Mad King’s only living son.”

Doran was quiet a few moments, a smile crinkling the corners of his eyes as he watched a little girl with fair, silver-streaked hair patter across the pink marble stones and throw herself into the middle of the great pool. “Do you know the history of the Water Gardens, Lord Baelish?”

Petyr did know, but the rhythm of the sonata demanded that he pretend otherwise. “I’m afraid I do not.”

“They were built by my ancestor, Prince Maron Martell, as a wedding gift for his bride Princess Daenerys Targaryen, daughter of Aegon IV Targaryen and sister to King Daeron the Good. He wanted her to have a haven from the hot Dornish sun that she was unaccustomed to. In the years that followed, their own children would play in the pools, along with the other noble children.” His smile grew wider as the little girl he’d been watching splashed an older boy, then darted underwater and swam away like a fish. “One day, when the sun was particularly cruel, Princess Daenerys saw the way the children of the guards and servants suffered in the heat, and she bid that they find relief in the waters as well – and she’d watch all of the little ones play together, both highborn and lowborn alike.”

“She had a gentle heart. A rare thing in a Targaryen.”

Doran gave a slight nod. “She did. But she also came to understand something throughout those years, watching the children play.”

“What is that?”

“That when children are stripped down, playing in the water beneath the sun, you can not tell one from the other. There is nothing visible that sets a lord’s son apart from a guard’s son. They are all just little people, each with a part to play in the future of their kingdom. Daenerys would tell her son this, after he’d pull himself from the water at the end of the day. She’d kneel down beside him, wrapping him up in soft cotton towels, and tell him to look. Look at all of the children playing together, side by side, in the pool. ‘This is your realm,’ she would say to him. ‘Look at them and remember them all, in everything that you do.’ ”

The Mockingbird listened, picking up on the subtle nuances of the Desert Egret’s new and unusual song.

“Tywin Lannister is dead,” the Martell prince continued, “humiliated on the privy by his own progeny. Cersei and Jaime Lannister were both publicly executed by the Faith Militant once Jaime confessed to their years of unnatural treason. Poor young Myrcella succumbed to the venom of a banded krait, and King Tommen ‘Baratheon’ holds on to his questionable rule only by virtue of the strength of his council and vehement denials by lords willing to perjure themselves to swear he is not the product of incest. Lord Tyrion has not been seen since he fled across the Narrow Sea, and no one has heard word of Stannis Baratheon for months.” He let out a slow, heavy breath. “So many promises I made, promises of divine retribution… and really, who is left alive now to endure my wrath? An ignorant boy, a disfigured dwarf, and the distant cousins of Lannister that currently take up residence in Casterly Rock. Those are all that have been left to me.”

Doran turned to Petyr, the lines of his face etching him as ancient beyond his years. “In truth, the gods did for me what I had not the stomach to do myself. For too many years I’ve sat at this terrace, watching the children play below and remembering Maron’s wife, Daenerys. And so many times I looked at all of their young faces, imagining them in leather and steel, and I could not bring myself to send them, to send their fathers and brothers off to war to die for a family that I could not bring back. Not when I knew it was only a matter of time before Viserys would come of age and join the Targaryens and Martells once again, and lead us all back into prosperity.”

_Now. Sing now, sing hard._ “It is no failure for a ruler to protect his people, Prince Doran. Especially when, as you say, it would have been a war fought to no pleasing end. Nothing you could have done would have returned Elia and her children to the land of the living. What you did was prevent others from suffering in your own heartbreak. You stayed your hand to keep your countrymen alive for a better tomorrow that you knew was coming.”

Doran’s strain seemed to ease a little, and the melody carried on. “It is not too late to give them that better tomorrow – to keep those pacts you made with your own soul, and to make all of your restraint count towards that good and decent end. And you do not need Viserys Targaryen to make it happen.”

Doran did not swoon at the Mockingbird’s dulcet tones, but he did not disregard them either. “You’ve come to me with a proposal then, representing another interest.”

_Feigned indignation. Sing!_ “I’ve come to with you with a proposal that represents _your_ interests, good prince. As I always have, faithfully.”

The Martell prince shifted slightly, a tell that spoke of reluctant agreement.

And then he sang of another House, another family wounded under the heel of Lannister self-preservation. A family that, while currently already linked to the Iron Throne, knew as well as anyone that they were but a slip of the tongue away from losing the boy king that held them there. A family that had long been viewed as a Dornish enemy, but more for a conflicting past than any true present day rancor, he resolutely pointed out. After all, the worst that had happened in recent memory was a simple tourney accident, and the young squire who’d caught in his stirrup when falling to the Red Viper lived well regardless of the limp, and held no grudge.

The Prince of Dorne listened patiently, emboldening Littlefinger as he picked up an overripe blood orange that had fallen to the marbled floor. “As much as we want to see a Targaryen revival, my prince,” he said as he lifted a bruised peel up off of a patch of rot, “we must accept the fact that it’s likely that the best days of the dragons are over.”

“Or perhaps they are not,” Doran countered, “and the whispers I hear on the wind are just that – baseless whispers.”

“It is possible, yes,” Littlefinger falsely conceded, unwilling to overplay his hand.

The symphony had reached a crescendo, now was the time for denouement.

They sat together as the sun began to set, each one deliberating within the quiet of himself. Doran would not shun Viserys based on conjecture; he would take the measure of the man himself. This visit between old friends was merely about planting seeds, and for that much Petyr had found the ground to be rich and fertile.

One by one the children started to clamber out of the pools, mothers tousling their wet hair with dry linens before bringing them in for supper. Careful glances caught the softening of Doran’s eyes as the little ones were herded in affectionately, and he knew that the pained prince’s mind had settled back on the hope that had sustained him for so long, on the wisdom of Maron’s tender Targaryen bride and the greatness that once was the dragon’s dynasty.

When twilight descended, he left Doran to his contemplations, and returned to his ship with a crate of fresh lemons to be baked into small cakes for his hidden lady of the North.

And then he was off once again, sailing towards a different friend, preparing to sing a different song.

 

**………**

 

“You’re tense. You need to relax a little.” A warm, calloused hand rested over Dany’s, gently loosening her grip on the rapier’s hilt. “There you go. Now, try moving with it. See if the weight and balance feel right.”

Dany cautiously swung the thin blade out in a wide arc in front of her, and then stepped into a rudimentary lunge. The steel was light, cutting through the air with a sharp whistling sound.

“Is it too heavy? Do you feel a drag or strain on your wrist?” the soft, even voice asked.

“No,” she said, spinning the blade with a quick turn of her wrist. “Not at all. It feels almost like it’s an extension of my arm.”

“Good. That’s the way it’s supposed to feel. Now here,” one hand came to rest on Dany’s shoulder, and the other curled around her waist as she was turned sideways. “When you’re fighting, you always want to meet your opponent sideface. It keeps his target small while you strike at him.” Daenerys settled into the sideface stance, standing tall and squaring her shoulders. She felt a pang of disappointment when her instructors hands fell away from her.

“That’s good.” The grass rustled behind her under a few lithe footfalls, and she found herself looking up into the smoky grey eyes that always left her captivated. “Now I want you to come at me. Don’t worry about speed or form – I want to see where your natural grace lies.” Grey stepped back, and drew her blade.

Biting her bottom lip, Dany stepped forward, cutting a half-moon arc towards the ghoul’s midsection. Grey easily parried, then motioned for her to try again. She pushed forward with an amateur stab, aiming for Grey’s shoulder. Once again her slender blade was deflected, slicing through the air. Her mentor gave her an approving nod, and she struck forth again.

The two danced like that for a few minutes, Dany in aggressive pursuit as Grey blocked and sidestepped, the only words shared between them the clash of steel and the occasional rush of breath. Finally, Grey lifted a hand, signalling for her to stop. “You’re hesitating, Dany,” she said quietly. “By the end of each strike, your conviction wavers and your blade starts to fall away. What are you afraid of?”

“I’m not afraid,” Dany said with a shake of her head. “I’ve just never done this before.”

“But you _are_ afraid. I felt it the night we met, and I feel it in your blade now.”

“You’re mistaken.”

Grey took a step towards her. “Are you afraid of the end that could come from this?” she glanced down at her blade, sheathing it.

“I told you that I’m not afraid.”

“Are you afraid that you’ll hurt me?”

Daenerys felt her pulse quicken and a warm, angry heat bloom in her chest. “How many times do I have to tell you-”

Grey took another step closer. “Are you afraid that you’ll become like me?”

Feeling a slow burn rising up within herself, Daenerys instinctively tightened her grip on her blade. “I am not going to say it again, _ghoul_ , I am not-”

Once more step, and the distance between them closed. “Are you afraid that you’ll become like me… and enjoy it?”

A flash of red splashed in front of violet eyes; and the dragon roared. Dany swung her blade angrily, wanting nothing more in the heat of the moment than to cleave through the presumptuous assassin. Her momentum was halted when Grey grabbed her thin blade and held it, the edge cutting deep into her palm. Before Daenerys could react, the killer leaned in, pressing her lips to the shell of Dany’s ear as she whispered: “you still have the coin. You’d never have to be afraid again.” Her voice lowered, catching in a rasp that sent a shiver through the exiled princess’ body. “I could kill him for you… you need only ask, Dany…”

“Dany…”

“Dany…”

“Daenerys?”

Grey was gone, and rather than a rapier Dany’s hand was curled around a twisted sheet. Soulful brown eyes replaced guarded storms, and Lylah’s hand was gently shaking her shoulder.

“I’m sorry to wake you, my Lady.”

“No, it’s alright,” Daenerys clumsily sat up, looking out her window at the lemon tree, noticing how high the sun had already climbed in the sky. “I shouldn’t have slept so long. I don’t know why I was so tired.”

“You’ve been pushing yourself too hard, princess.” Lylah’s brow furrowed with worry. “You need to take better care of yourself.”

“I live in the wealthiest district in Braavos and sleep in silk sheets, Lylah,” Dany said with a sigh. “I’m far better cared for than most.”

“It’s not your fault, the way the world is Dany. It’s been broken a long time. You can’t fix it all on your own.”

“No, but what I can fix, I will. If we don’t all do that much, then nothing will ever change.”

A smile at that. “True enough, my lady. Now come. Let’s get you dressed – Ser Willem wants to speak with you.”

“Oh? Do you know what about?”

“Not exactly, no. But I think it has something to do with the package that arrived for you from Pentos.”

 

..........

**AN #2: I wanted to take a moment to point out a new fic for Arya/Dany fans on A03 titled ‘Arcana Imperii’ by AgentJoanneMills. If you want more dragonwolf goodness, give it a try – it has a lot of promise.**


	9. The Old Grizzly's Daughter

Daenerys sat on the edge of her bed, staring down at the dull iron coin as she traced the ridged Valyrian script that encircled its nicked perimeter.

_Valar morghulis, all men must die_.

_Valar dohaeris_ , _all men must serve_.

_Which will I ask of you in the end, Grey?_

She still wasn’t entirely sure why the scarred bravo had given her the coin and the gold dragon. She had mentioned a debt repaid, with interest, but Dany could think of nothing that she’d done to warrant such restitution, nor could she remember having seen the object of her current fascination before that very night.

Unless, of course, she’d met Grey before as a different person.

Dany sighed and turned the coin over, staring at the embossed hooded man on the other side. She ran her fingernail down the length of a deep scratch that cut across its surface, briefly wondering if it was a strike from the First Sword’s blade that had bitten into the metal so crudely, or if it had been there before it ever came into Grey’s possession.

_How can such a tiny, battered thing hold such power?_

The dreams had started shortly after she had learned just exactly what it was she had been given. _‘It’s not just a token of favor, Dany, it’s an invitation,’_ Sera had told her when she took the small woman aside after they’d settled a family of newcomers from Yunkai. _‘It marks you as an ally of the House of Black and White, and can be exchanged for either their services or their consideration if you wish to join their ranks.’_

_‘Their services? You mean…?’_

_‘Yes, I mean **that**. Or anything else they are capable of fulfilling. Dany, who was it that gave this to you…?’_

Later that night she’d dreamt of Grey, standing with her back to Daenerys beneath the lemon tree outside her window, holding a bloodied dagger. She hadn’t initially given the fleeting glimpse much thought; attributing it to the macabre revelations shared through conversation with Sera only hours before. But then, about a week later, there’d been another.

Far more vivid than the first, this time Dany had been alone in the darkened house, hugging her knees to her chest in the corner beneath the great wooden beams of the sitting room. Moonlight cast familiar planes into extended shadows, and she could see her own hands, pale blue in midnight, blackened and slick with blood. Dread washed over her as she heard the quiet thud of resolute footfalls crossing the room, and she squeezed her eyes shut until they came to a stop directly in front of her.

‘ _Dany._ ’

A hand rested on her shoulder, and she slowly opened her eyes to see a black-clad, hooded figure in front of her. ‘ _Grey?_ ’

_‘You know why I’m here, don’t you Dany?’_ the assassin asked.

_‘I’m sorry,’_ she muttered, reaching out to grip Grey’s thick cloak and wiping her hands off on it as relief flooded her limbs.

_‘It’s alright; it’s dark. No one will notice.’_

_‘It was the dragon,’_ Dany said, palming the heavy fabric until her hands were clean and dry again.

Grey nodded in agreement. _‘It was… but was it his, or yours?’_

She’d woken up in a sweat after that, her chest tight and her throat dry as she looked down at her spotless hands. She hadn’t gotten back to sleep that night, and as she eventually found comfort watching the sun rise through the Braavos fog, she told herself that she had just been unusually anxious because Viserys’ ship to Dorne had been a few days late in arriving.

But the Dornish ship had come and gone now, and every dockhand Ser Willem knew swore by whichever god they believed in that Viserys had boarded it. There was no doubt he had departed, and with him, any rationalization for dreams that alluded to the dark intentions Daenerys had been covertly grappling with.

She could still feel the imagined heat of Grey’s lips against her ear, giving voice to her seditious desire.

“I think… I want to ask Grey to kill Viserys,” she said in a barely audible hush, out loud for the first time.

She felt herself tense as the cold shock of certainty rushed over her from head to toe like the frigid current of a raging river. He was the rightful King of Westeros, the Dragon, her brother and her blood – and she wished to end his life in exchange for a worn, dented coin.

Visenya, Rhaenys, Rhaella, Naerys, Alysanne, Aelinor - they had all been sister-wives to their reigning Targaryen brothers, and had all undoubtedly suffered some form of hardship or other for the sake of their kingdom. That was what true majesty was; setting yourself aside in order to secure and lead your people. They had each come before to show her the way, and all she wanted to do was destroy their legacy.

She was not worthy of the name Targaryen.

But if she wasn’t, then Viserys was even less so.

A lifetime of abuses had led to this moment, this tenuous grip on a scarred-up piece of death’s currency. The young king-to-be had always been clever, gifting pain with pinches and twists that would leave no marks when she was a child, all while threatening her with worse depravities if she so much as breathed a word of any of it to their bearish guardian. As they grew older, his torments evolved beyond the simple physical hurts that Dany had learned to numb herself to, instead using anyone or anything Dany cared about as a means to leverage her. He’d pulled knives on servants, beaten on the neighbor’s boy for bringing her flowers, kicked a half-starved dog she’d brought home across the room – he’d even gone so far as to poison Ser Willem’s blackstrap rum, dangling a small pouch of the powdered antidote over the old knight’s head as he slept.

Viserys Targaryen had ruled his household with violence, fear, and manipulation. His reign over Westeros would be no different.

Surely the gods would forgive her for sparing so many others all that she had endured.

 

**………**

“They’re dragon eggs, Daenerys,” Ser Willem said as she opened the velvet-lined box. “All the way from the Shadowlands beyond Asshai.”

“They’re beautiful,” Dany whispered as she looked down at the three wonders that lay cradled before her, brushing her fingertips over the thick, brilliant scales patterned around each of them in turn . The first was a dark green, like the rich moss found in the deep woods at dusk, and burnished with flecks of bronze. The second one, slightly smaller, was a pale cream color streaked with whorls and tendrils of rich gold. The third and largest of the trio was deep black onyx, rippled with swirls of living scarlet that were faintly warm to the touch.

Ser Willem gave a nod. “The years have turned them to stone, but they will always be just as you say – beautiful.”

Daenerys reverently lifted the verdant egg, the weight of it in her hands giving credence to his words. “These… must be worth a fortune,” Daenerys said softly, her brow furrowing in consternation. “Ser Willem, why would Varys and Illyrio send me such a priceless gift?”

The old grizzly chuckled. “You’re a princess, Daenerys. As much as we’ve kept that hidden from the world at large for all this time, those who do know have all the reason they need.”

_And you yourself, dear knight, once taught me to carefully examine any hand that held out a gift without clear intent_. “Yet it is not the reason they have offered me these treasures, is it Ser Willem?” She asked pointedly.

Her caretaker was quiet for a moment, his broad shoulders starting to sag as he let out a sigh. “Sometimes I forget just how clever you are, Dany,” he said, holding out his large hand. “Will you walk the docks with me?”

One of Daenerys’ earliest memories was of that strong, leathered hand reaching out to take her own as they would stroll through the Purple Harbor, watching all of the lords and ladies of Braavos returning home after their grand excursions. _‘One day, little Dany, you and your brother will rule over Westeros,’_ he’d tell her, _‘and you’ll have a fleet of ships waiting for you, even finer than these. I’ll be an old man by then, standing right here at this very spot, the day you board one of these great galleys and sail away back home.’_

She reached out and took his hand, still wide enough to engulf her own despite the weathering of time, and felt her worries ebb under a tide of fond remembrance. “I’d like that very much.”

They strolled together in companionable silence along the same eastward path they’d taken ever since she was old enough to walk; across the narrow bridge and past the Blue Lantern, until stone gave way to plank and homes were replaced by lavish waterfront shops and upper-class taverns. It had been the better part of a year since she’d spent any time at the affluent local port, and she’d forgotten just how contrary it was to the rest of Braavos – dark, muted colors replaced the flamboyant hues that brightened most of the city, and people spoke in quiet tones of reservation rather than engage in the gregarious spectacle that continually excited Ragman’s Harbor. The Sea Blades regularly patrolled the area, protecting the Iron Bank’s hulking vessels and deterring any boisterous bravos with notions of disturbing the peace of the wealthy as they stared out at the opulent pleasure barges of renowned courtesans with unbridled longing.

The pretension of it all made Dany uncomfortable.

“It’s gone,” Ser Willem said wistfully after they’d sat down on a bench overlooking the Sealord’s mooring.

“What’s gone?” Dany asked, puzzled.

“That little shop that used to sell all of the candied fruits you like so much.”

Daenerys broke into a laugh, remembering the sticky-fingered madness that had gripped her the first time she’d tried one of Merlayne’s delicious honey-roasted pears. “Oh, it’s not gone. She’s just running a stall over at Ragman’s now.” She glanced sideways at him. “But surely whatever it is you have to tell me isn’t so terrible that you feel the need to placate me with a treat first?”

The hard man’s face folded in a smile. “A little too old for that, huh? No, don’t worry, it’s not nearly as bad as all that. You may even find the possibility to your liking.”

“And what possibility is that?” She raised an eyebrow.

Ser Willem took a deep breath, exhaling slowly. “You remember what I told you about that day your father was killed? The sacking of King’s Landing?”

Dany’s face fell. “How could I forget? The Lannisters had my entire family killed.”

“Indeed they did,” the aged knight said gravely. “But it seems they may not have been as thorough as we were led to believe.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, princess, that there is a chance your nephew Aegon is alive and well.”

“But I don’t understand,” Dany said, her confusion evident. “He was just a baby, and Gregor Clegane smashed his head against the wall. His body was laid out in front of the Usurper along with all the rest.”

“A body was laid out, yes. Not necessarily Aegon’s body.” Ser Willem stared out at the water, as if he wanted nothing more than to hurl himself into it. “That last trip I made to Pentos at Illyrio’s behest… I was not his only guest. He hosted both myself and Lord Varys.”

“The Spider?”

“One and the same. And like his namesake, he spun me a tale of words as smooth as silk. A tale that, if true, could change _everything_.”

“What did he tell you?” Daenerys gently prompted.

“That the babe who had his head dashed by the Mountain was not in fact Aegon Targaryen, but a poor tanner’s son Varys had placed in his crib while spiriting the young prince to safety.”

“So Aegon is _alive_ …?”

“If Varys is to be believed, yes. Alive and well,” the grizzly turned to finally face her, “and ready to take the Iron Throne with a suitable bride by his side.”

“And that is why the Magister sent me such an exquisite gift,” Dany said despondently. “He thinks to purchase me for this so-called prince to add credibility to his questionable claim.”

“I don’t doubt that he seeks to soften your disposition towards the idea,” Ser Willem said candidly. “But I’ve made it very clear that you’ll not so much as meet with the lad until I’ve seen him for myself. If the boy is Rhaegar’s blood, I’ll know it.”

“And what of Viserys?”

“Even if Aegon is truly Rhaegar’s son and heir, you and I both know he’ll never stand aside to let another ascend. Nor will Dorne just turn around and walk away from their own long-awaited royal ambitions. There’ll be another Dance of the Dragons-”

“-and Westeros will bleed until only one of them is left standing.” Daenerys finished with a shake of her head.

“It will,” the knight agreed.

“Then perhaps neither of them deserve to be king,” she said coolly. “After all, even if this Aegon is legitimate, who’s to say he’s any better a man than Viserys? We know _nothing_ about him, save that he wants ‘his’ throne and is preparing to take it.”

“I’m told he’s much like his father,” Ser Willem said. “Well-educated and grounded. That he’s been raised with the common folk, and that he is quite at home on a ship. He’s also said to be very handsome-”

“-none of which has been confirmed, and none of which matters to me!” Daenerys snapped in frustration. “Has it ever once occurred to you, or Viserys, or Illyrio or Varys or _anyone at all_ that perhaps I’d like a say in my own life? Or do you all just sit around a table discussing how I can best fulfill someone else’s aspirations without ever once considering that I may have some of my own?”

“It’s not like that, Daenerys,” the old bear said quietly. “Perhaps for Viserys or Illyrio it is… but I’m a soldier; schemes and guile are beyond the likes of me.” His eyes softened then, and he looked at her with such tenderness she regretted the harsh edge of her tone that had so clearly cut him. “I have been sworn to your brother since the day King Aerys died and we named him King on Dragonstone. And through the years, I have watched him descend into the same madness that took your father, helpless to stop it, no matter how hard I tried. A servant is no substitute for a father, and my oath usurped any authority I ever thought to impress upon him.”

_He blames himself_ , Dany realized then, her heart aching for the man who had left his home, lost his family and given up everything to raise her and Viserys in safety. _He blames himself for the monster Viserys turned out to be._

“I’m old now, Dany.” He grimaced as his hand involuntarily spasmed, paining him. “I won’t be here for much longer. You’re the only good thing to come from my life, and all I want before I meet my end is to know that you’re safe and cared for. With Viserys, I know you’ll never be either of those things.” His scowl deepened. “That’s why I sat around that damn table, listening to talk that could end up being nothing more than treason. I wanted to find a way to protect you from him; a safe way home.”

She rested her hand on top of his own, steadying the twitching that had seized it. “Westeros is my country, but it is not my home. Braavos is my home, Ser Willem, and I don’t want to leave it.”

“But there, you are a princess, and here…”

“And here I am _happy_ ,” Dany supplied. “I am happy, and surrounded by people I love. There is more to life than titles and claims. The Iron Throne is not _mine_ , and I have no obligation to it. Let Viserys and Aegon fight over their precious bladed chair; I want no part of it.”

“Are you telling me that you would throw away all that you are entitled to, just to avoid a political marriage?” Ser Willem asked incredulously.

“I’m telling you that I would give it up to avoid spending my life trapped in a gilded cage, being made to set aside everything I hold dear.” she answered softly.

His brows knit as he considered her words, digesting their truth. “If Viserys claims the throne, and is intent on having you for his own, you will be running from him for the rest of your life.”

_No, dear knight… you do not know what I have in my possession. I will **not** be made to run_. “If Viserys manages to take the throne, I will worry about it then.”

“You are a Targaryen princess, Daenerys. I am pledged to serve you as much as your brother. I cannot force you to accept any proposal you do not deem fit, but tell me - what kind of servant to your House will I be if I do not try to dissuade you from this reckless decision?” he asked her earnestly.

“You would be less a servant of House Targaryen,” Daenerys said gently. “But far more the father of my heart.”

 

**.........**

**AN: The purpose of the Iron Coin of the Faceless Men is never fully explained, aside from being characterized as a 'coin of great value' that invokes the rule of _valar dohaeris_. So, I'm taking a bit of artistic license in this fic and giving it some scope...**


	10. The Wolf and the Dragon

**AN: My thanks to prplmunky for allowing me to use her excellent original character the Black Bravo of Menaris for this chapter.**

**……….**

“This one shit himself.”

Of course he did. There was always at least one. No One sighed and shook her head. “So you toss him out like all the others, and wash your damn hands afterwards.”

The acolyte, a soft-featured, pretty young man she’d mistaken for a girl during his first weeks in service, looked over at her with wide eyes. She narrowed her own at him in return, making it abundantly clear that she did not jape, and that if he did not do as he was bid then the drunken Braavosi that had collapsed in front of the pool would not be the only one in the House of Black and White to soil himself. Grimacing miserably, the lad crouched down and hooked his hands beneath the sot’s arms, and started dragging him towards the great weirwood and ebony doors.

Shaking her head derisively, the ghoul knelt down in front of the gruesomely pierced bravo that lay still before her. He hadn’t even lasted long enough for her to offer him release through the deceptively sweet water she’d cupped for him, instead bleeding out through the many grisly punctures that marked him as yet another casualty of the Nightingale.

They’d been stumbling in for the last ten days, duelists slashed and riddled with thin, deadly holes. It was like this every year during the festival of the Uncloaking, when excitement and revelry roamed the streets unchecked. Passions were enflamed; demure glances becoming invitations to tryst, and a single wrong word was reason enough for a bravo to fight to the death. But for all the lives sacrificed to this unbridled ardor and rage, it was nothing compared to the countless lives lost for the sake of a single woman at the Moon Pool.

It was the Black Bravo of Menaris who had started it all, years ago. A eunuch and a self-made legend who was as reckless as he was skilled, the Black Bravo had fallen under the Nightingale’s spell despite his cutting, and resolved himself to fight day and night until she deigned to grant him a kiss. On the first day of the Uncloaking, he waited in front of the Moon Pool, challenging any man with steel to a duel in the storied courtesan’s name. One by one they fell to his blade, some gurgling their last breath beneath the shallow water, others withdrawing just before their ends, denying him the satisfaction of a killing blow and limping to the House of the Many-Faced God to put an end to their dishonor instead. Crowds gathered as bodies piled, and every evening as twilight descended, the Black Bravo would turn toward the purple harbor as the Nightingale’s elaborate barge passed by, and call out his devotion.

Finally, at sunset on the tenth and final day of the Uncloaking, the Nightingale ferried across the wealthy harbor. In silk as soft as a breeze wrapped around perfected beauty that had become akin to myth, she strode over the bloodied cobblestones the Black Bravo had gifted her with, light as if she were walking on air. Then, without a word, she leaned up, cupping his face tenderly in her hands, and kissed him, so soft and sweet that the swordsman fell to his knees the moment that she pulled away.

Every year since, smitten bravos would gather at the Moon Pool, duelling in the Nightingale’s name until only one was left standing at sunset on the tenth day, when she would ferry across the water and favor the victor with a single kiss before gliding to the Sealord’s Palace to adorn his arm at the masquerade for the evening, and unmask him when the Titan roared across the city at midnight.

It was a kiss worth dying for.

“Even if you’d won that kiss,” No One said quietly as she rolled the still bravo’s frame on to a faded stretcher, “you would have had to just watch her walk away right after.” She settled his arms at his sides, and closed his eyes as two hooded figures lifted him and carried his body away to be cleansed.

The heavy dichotomous doors opened with a groan, and the effeminate acolyte hauled his aromatic load outside to sleep it off. Once they were clear of the doorway, a disheveled boy stepped inside the temple, holding a box under his arm.

“ _Valar morghulis_ ,” he said, his bare feet patting the floor as he walked towards her.

“ _Valar dohaeris_ ,” she replied, bowing her head with a salute.

He shifted the box into his hands, and held it out to her. “For The Gentleman, courtesy of the Wharf King.”

She glanced over his head and out of the angled doors, noticing the late afternoon sun starting to dip _. Just in time, then_. “Thank you,” she told the boy, pulling out a few coins for him from the small leather pouch hanging from her belt.

“My pleasure,” he said with a toothy smile, bowing and tightening his fist around the iron titans that graced his palm before turning around and scurrying back out, nearly knocking over the returning acolyte in his haste.

“There’s a group of children gathered outside,” the pretty boy said nervously. “I think they’re planning something… _nefarious_.”

“Most likely are,” The Gentleman agreed. “A few of them will probably come in here and try to steal one of the cups, or a candle, maybe a painted stone from one of the statues – anything that will serve as proof that they entered the ‘lair of the ghouls’ and survived.” It was another Uncloaking tradition; a test of courage that only the bravest of dock brats would endeavor in order to impress their accomplices and daunt their rivals.

“And when that happens, what do I _do_?” he asked, obviously distressed.

“Oh, best thing is to just give them your robe and sandals,” she answered. “Then they’ll leave right away without taking anything else.” She turned around before he could see her smirk, and headed toward the stone steps that led down to the sleeping cells.

 

**………...**

The Gentleman dressed the part.

A thick, dusky grey doublet settled comfortably over a white linen shirt, with sleeves perfectly tailored to cuff around her wrists. A supple leather belt cinched around her waist, and loose-fitting black trousers laced up around her hips, narrowing down the stride of her legs into a pair of expertly crafted black leather boots. A dark blue cape clasped around her shoulders, and a pair of charcoal velvet gloves hung from her belt beside her rapier.

For a blind man, the Wharf King certainly knew class when he saw it.

Every piece fit her as if made-to-measure, and No One tried not to be unnerved by just how effective the wharf rats were in serving their master. The eyes of the Faceless Men were everywhere; she herself was no exception to their gaze.

Nor was she an exception to further torment from her sworn order.

She glanced down at the gold-stamped ticket that would grant her entry into the Sealord’s Palace, laying down at the bottom of the box beside a brooding wolf mask. _They make me kill Arya Stark, and then taunt me with her sigil. But it doesn’t matter– tonight I am Cain Daleo, and I’ll wear the wolf as if I own it._

Pulling a blade from the sheath bound to her forearm, she cut along the thick ridge of scar that outlined her face, bleeding it again. She tilted her head, letting warm drops skew across her countenance, then lifted the angular young man’s face she’d taken from the wall and held it over her own until it melded, and his features became hers. She began to feel the pain of his final memory, of the horse’s hooves crushing his ribs and cutting into the soft, unprotected skin of his stomach, and she separated herself from his agony, forcing it into the same cage she’d imprisoned all of the others who came before.

When her pulse had steadied and the stranger’s pain had ebbed, she reached down and pulled the constructed wolf from its enclosure. A piece of folded paper fluttered to the floor as she rested it over her borrowed visage, looping the twine on either side of it around her ears and knotting it behind her head. Once lupine, she stooped to grab the slip of parchment that had dropped and opened it, revealing an elegant scripting of just two inked words:

_‘Be charming’_

She chuckled and tossed the note aside. The man worried too much. No One could be whatever she needed to be, and in the case of the most exclusive event in Braavos, surrounded by wealth and nobility, charm would be in abundance.

Charming a room before you stealthily commit murder was the mark of a professional, after all.

Grabbing her ticket, she flicked a spot of dust from her sleeve and made her way back up the steps and into the temple foyer, passing by another cruelly perforated body that was being positioned on a stretcher. Pretty Boy was on his hands and knees, his expression mortified as he scrubbed a vile concoction of blood and vomit from the floor. Clearly another inebriated bacchant had stumbled in, somehow mistaking the House of Death for the more accommodating Temple of the Moonsingers.

_After tonight, all of this madness will end._

The No One called Cain stepped outside and down the steps of the rocky knoll to find a decorated skiff waiting at the edge of the canal. The ferryman waved her over, grinning beneath his wide-brimmed hat. “Courtesy of the Wharf King,” he said. “To the Sealord’s Palace, then?”

“Indeed.” Cain placed a few coins into the gondolier’s hand, and sat down as he began to steer them northeast up the channel as the sun began to set.

The streets surrounding the assassin were already dioramas of devil-may-care carousal. Men and women in flamboyant dress accessorized by bright feathers and beadwork and topped off with colorful masks of all sorts laughed while boasting and making prosperous toasts. Dark-skinned firebrands walked amongst the gathered crowds, carrying torches and breathing flame as revelers cheered and tossed them coins. One woman tilted her head back, swallowing the full length of a sword while lewd tongues called out suggestions for other things she should try working down her throat. Mystics sauntered through the alleys, bodies covered in rich paints that gave them exotic allure as they blew shining dust from the palms of their hands into the faces of tempestuous men, inexplicably calming them. Braziers were lit with oils that caused them to burn smokeless in a motley of different colors, wowing children with what they could only perceive to be magic. Musicians plucked at strings and lovelorn writers, hearts on their sleeves, called up to closed windows of past lovers they couldn’t forget.

It all had a heady, wild energy to it, and it left even Cain feeling dazed.

The chaos subsided as they drew closer to the Sealord’s Palace, where uniformed Sea Blades lined the streets wearing half-masks of emerald green. Cain disembarked from the skiff, thanking the boatman again, and joined in the line of the privileged who were making their way to the grand entrance. Off to the side of the Purple Harbor, the assassin could see two glamorous barges moored, one bearing the winged sigil of the Nightingale, the other the feathered quill of the Poetess. _I’ll be in very fine company tonight, it seems. One lady who kills with the promise of a kiss, and another who has just led a man to his death through fervent obsession._

Daeron Marrus had the same extravagant taste in women as the Sealord, but without the wealth required to indulge in his infatuation. Though his brother had been generous with him, fortunes burn up quickly in the flames of desire, and the Poetess was a courtesan who cost nothing short of a king’s ransom to love. To continue funding his passions, Daeron made the grave mistake of using his position as a keyholder for the Iron Bank to steal from one of its deepest vaults, believing the sum would never be noticed amiss until years after his death.

He was wrong.

Cain passed by massive, flanking statues until the tall set of doors leading into the palace loomed before her. A hulking guard took her invitation, examining it carefully, and then stepped aside to let her in. She walked through slowly, making sure to hang behind a few others, not wanting to appear as if she was too familiar with the layout. No One knew her way through these lavish halls; Cain Daleo did not. She could hear music and laughter as they approached the ballroom, and once inside she spotted the musicians playing the cheerful melodies off to the side of the Sealord’s host table.

“Wine, my lord?” An impeccably dressed young man held a burnished copper tray topped with small glasses that were filled with fine vintages of varying hues.

“No, thank you,” she waved him off, mentally mapping out her surroundings. The hall was impressive, but not overly large, comfortably accommodating only a few hundred. Pillars of carved jade held up great gilded beams that were etched with the names of past Sealords, dating back all the way to Braavos’ founding. The dancefloor was wide and sprawling, and already couples and strangers alike were stepping and turning in time with the upbeat rhythm that welcomed the arriving elite. The night was young, but Cain could see a few lords and ladies already had matching ribbons of unmasking wrapped around their wrists – when the Titan roared at midnight, signalling the end of the Uncloaking, ladies would first unmask themselves and then the partner they’d claimed with their uniquely colored ribbon during the evening, revealing the identity of their chosen beau.

Cain would be gone long before then.                                     

At the far end of the ballroom, the Sealord’s host table sat upon a modest dais. He wore the mask of a ferocious lion; the Nightingale tiny beside his imposing form behind the alabaster mask of her namesake. His most honored guests would sit there with him after he’d had his fill of dancing – including his lusty brother Daeron, wearing the guise of a jackal. Only two servants were permitted to tend to the table for the duration of the masquerade, each hand-selected by the First Sword himself. Those trusted servants would bring their liege and his personal guests anything they could need or desire, including copious volumes of wine for Daeron.

The Poetess was not his only vice.

It was the drink that would end up killing him by any account, regardless of the precautions taken for his service. The dancefloor extended all the way to the dais the host table sat upon, and dancers continually passed it by all through the night, gliding and spinning as they crossed the room while the Sealord looked on in amusement. Cain would keep watch throughout the evening, and when the moment was right, she’d lead her partner up for a spin and empty a vial of Nightshade into Daeron’s goblet as she flourished. The deed would be done by the time she pulled her partner back in, and once the song was over, she could take her leave and return to the House of Black and White.

All she needed was a nimble hand, and an opening.

The musicians started a new tune, and Cain joined the rest of the veiled dancers. Her arm was quickly taken by a woman wearing a black cat mask and too much perfume, and the killer barely suppressed a cough as she stepped into a lively beat with the overzealous feline. Once the music reached its zenith, she gave a polite bow and lost herself in the crowd, ensuring that she wouldn’t generate enough interest to warrant a the shackle of a ribbon.

Slow hours passed by with the pull of minstrels strings, and Cain danced with a rhinestone elephant, a satin panther, a bejeweled unicorn, a red-feathered bird of paradise, and a golden vixen; all while watching Daeron and the Poetess. They’d danced a few slow numbers, the only kind Daeron’s clumsy feet could keep pace with, and now they were back at the Sealord’s table where Daeron’s jackal mask sat on his forehead partially lifted as Poetess fed him berries dolloped with cream and a servant poured him a third cup of wine.

It was almost time.

Slipping through the mingling crowd, Cain edged her way closer to the dais. The troupe struck up lively again, and the wolf felt a small arm loop through her own. She turned and found herself face to face with the façade of a deep purple dragon trimmed in silver.

“…Grey?” the dragon asked, familiar violet eyes widening in surprise behind her regal guise.

_How could - my eyes. No. Oh by the seven hells, no_. No One felt dread thrum through her; first icy cold, then hot enough to sweat her palms. The genteel persona of Cain fell dead at her mind’s feet, sliced through and bled out like the hollow thing it was, leaving the drifter named Grey in its stead. Grey, who she’d only been for one moment outside of a house with a red door, and never had a chance to define.

“Hello Dany,” she responded warmly, betraying no hint of her inner turmoil.

“I... never would have expected you to be here,” Dany said with a note of surprise.

_Nor should you have. You were never supposed to know – no one was._ “Where else would I be?” Grey asked playfully, still trying to characterize her little-known self.

“Perhaps out rescuing foolish young ladies who can’t find their way home. Or maybe dueling out at the Moon Pool,” Dany said with equal good humor.

Grey bit her bottom lip behind her wolf mask as she considered how she should respond. Tooth nearly broke skin, and then a single image of a disregarded piece of parchment flashed through her mind:

_Be charming_.

“Well it seems that the only lady I’m concerned with currently has no need of a rescue. And there is nothing for me at the Moon Pool,” Grey said, wrapping an arm around Dany’s waist and clasping her hand as they began to fall in with the other dancers . “I have no desire to kill over a love I do not bear. Besides,” her tone revealed her hidden smirk, “beautiful women do not kiss ghouls.”

“Is that so?” Dany asked, resting a hand on Grey’s shoulder as she followed the assassin’s lead. “Then perhaps some beautiful women are just cowards, no matter what the minstrels may sing.”

A grin tugged at Grey’s lips behind her canine visage. “Bold words, dragon.” She looked over Dany’s shoulder, observing as Daeron drunk deeply from his cup, and subtly started to guide them towards her target.

“It’s more than just words.” Violet eyes looked up at her from behind crafted mystique. “Why are you really here tonight, Grey?” She paused, as if trying to marry word to meaning. “Did you… accompany someone?”

“Qarro wanted a few extra blades in the mix tonight, just in case.” The lie slid fluidly from her tongue, so smooth that even the Kindly Man himself would have believed it. “I had some free time.”

She felt Dany’s fingertips smooth over the curve of her shoulder. “So even now you’re protecting others.”

“Well, only until you accept my offer and take up the blade. Then you can stand guard while I go back to scowling in the shadows, the way the gods intended.”

Dany’s laugh was as sweet as honey as they gracefully neared the Sealord’s table. From the corner of her eye, Grey could see Daeron’s wine being topped up as he barked an order to the musical troupe to play a slow number next. The lush would ask Poetess to dance again, and once they moved, she could strike.

“What if I was to forego the water dance, and request something else of you instead?” Dany asked hesitantly.

“Then you would get what you asked for, so long as it’s within my ability to give,” Grey replied.

“And it’s really that simple?”

Daeron the Jackal stood and led Poetess away as the song reached a crescendo.

A two-step glide and Grey was perfectly poised an arm’s length from the brimming wine goblet. Slate eyes darted, making sure no gaze fell upon her. “My lady, it really is…” the ghoul started, dropping her arm from Dany’s waist and lifting their clasped hands with a skillful turn, guiding Dany out into a spin as she pulled the Nightshade from inside her belt. She flicked off the wax seal and arced her arm back with a flourish, deftly pouring the poison into Daeron’s cup as she started to pull Dany back against her. “…that simple.”

And it was done.

Grey dropped the tiny vial to the floor, crushing it under her bootheel as her arm found its place around Dany’s waist once more. When she reached to take Dany’s hand in her own again, the dragon looped a ribbon around her wrist – dark purple lined with silver, just like her mask. A dark brow raised, unseen. “Are you sure, my lady?”

“I am,” Dany said, a blush in her voice as she stepped in and rested her head on Grey’s shoulder while a slow melody of palpable longing filled the great room. Grey relaxed her grip around Dany, her palm shifting to rest against the small of the dragon’s back as Dany laced the fingers of their entwined hands together.

They were just two, swallowed up in a small sea of would-be lovers and ephemeral connections. Grey watched Daeron and the Poetess, knowing that they were sharing their last dance, and felt a rare moment of melancholy. For all of the mistakes the lout had made, he truly did love her… and she wouldn’t even care when he was gone. In that way, he was no different from the Moon Pool bravos she set to rest.

She glanced over at the ribbon that delicately manacled her wrist. It was exactly what Cain had wanted to avoid, but Cain was gone and the hour was growing late. Grey needed to stay until she was sure the job was done, and there were far worse ways to observe Daeron’s passing than under the cover of Dany.

She could feel the steady, pulsing warmth of Dany’s breath against her neck as the final yearning notes came to an aching conclusion, and hushed whispers began to fill the room. Daeron and the Poetess returned to their places of honor, and the Jackal lifted his mask and tilted his head back to drink from his cup.

An instinctive, predatory grin tugged at the wolf’s lips.

“It’s almost time for the Titan’s roar, isn’t it?” Dany asked softly.

Grey gave a slight nod. “It is.”

“Will you walk me home again, after it’s all ended?”

“I will.”

A low humming began to sound across the city and within the palace, slowly rising in strength and intensity until it shook the core of every single Braavosi and became a mighty roar, echoing throughout the lagoon and across the waters of the Narrow Sea. Roisterers hollered, women clapped, and glasses clinked as wine flowed anew. “Here’s to the Uncloaking!” the Sealord’s bass boomed across the room as he swung out his mug in a merry gesture of salute. All eyes fell on the vision at his side as the Nightingale elegantly removed her diamond-studded mask, and reached around the Sealord’s ears to slip away the majestic lion he’d worn. Once revealed, the ballroom erupted into deafening stomps, whistles and cheers.

After the uproar had died down, Grey turned to face Dany as she lifted her mask away, letting it fall to the marbled floor.

She had forgotten just how lovely the woman from Purple Harbor truly was.

Dany locked her arms around Grey’s neck, eyes uncertain as gentle fingertips worked the taut string that held the brooding wolf in place. “Dany,” Grey said quietly, “before you go any further, I need to tell you-”

“-that the face beneath the mask is not your own?”

Grey nodded.

“It’s alright,” the twine loosened and Dany started to lift Grey’s mask up, pausing its ascent just below her nose. “I already know who you are,” she whispered, leaning up to brush her lips against the assassin’s, light and breathy, as if the once-dragon wanted to breathe her in.

In another world, on the other side of the room, Daeron slumped forward, his head hitting his brother’s table.


	11. The Chainbreaker and the Liar

_She kills. That’s what they do._

Dany stepped outside of the red door and into the misty morning of a world recovering from the very brink of madness. The Purple Harbor district was enveloped in a ghostly silence, with even the soft echo of her footsteps swallowed up in the thick fog that wrapped around her ankles. Bright streamers and colorful paper masks littered the cobbled streets, vibrant contrasts to the heavy bleak that weighed over the free city, serving as vivid reminders of the night left behind.

_She lied to me. I danced with her, marked her with my ribbon, kissed her… and somehow in the midst of all that, she killed him._

It hadn’t been declared murder. The Sealord’s brother had passed out drunk at the end of the Uncloaking, slack-jawed and snoring at the table while his courtesan’s cheeks reddened with chagrin. It wasn’t the first time Daeron had made such a scene; he was well-known to overindulge, and by all accounts the masquerade had been no exception – servants were seen topping up his goblet all throughout the night. There had been nothing amiss until early this morning, when he was found cold and breathless in his bed, considered to be a victim of his own excesses.

But Dany knew better.

The Sealord’s Masquerade had always been an exclusive event. She and Viserys had been granted annual invitations based only on the premise that Viserys would one day be the king of Westeros, as their exiled standing would never have afforded them the privilege otherwise.

_‘Qarro wanted a few extra blades in the mix tonight, just in case. I had some free time.’_

Part of her knew that it seemed _wrong_ somehow, but she’d been too distracted by the warmth of Grey’s hand around her own and the strong arm around her waist to question it further. The First Sword had his armed honor guards surrounding the entire ballroom, why would he need more hidden amongst the guests? True, Grey was an exceptional talent with a blade, but she was still only one in a veritable sea of protective steel.

By the end of the night, Dany had still been so preoccupied by a pair of penetrating slate eyes that she hadn’t even noticed that Grey never paused to advise Qarro that she was leaving, and, in fact, had made an effort to _avoid_ passing him by on their way out. Looking back now, Dany realized she’d likely been concerned that he may recognize her as well, if given a moment to look hard enough. After all, how often had they trained together, eye to eye with swords held in a deadlock?

_I’m a fool_ , she thought angrily. _She walked me home and kissed me at my doorstep, all the while letting me believe she was out to protect innocents from harm!_

Lylah had seen it all coming from the start. How many times had she warned Dany? _‘My lady, I know that look. Please believe me when I tell you no good can come of it. Ghouls aren’t like the rest of us; they don’t love. Even if you are determined to abandon your birthright, you’ll find no happiness in the shadow of the Many-Faced God.’_

But Dany could never see Grey the way Lylah did. Yes, she served in the House of Black and White – but she had also inspired children to cheer through the streets of Braavos whenever she met with the First Sword. She stopped in darkened thoroughfares to help a stranger instead of just walking past like so many others would have. She walked a tired, violated woman home and made her feel safe for the first time that she could remember. She spoke philosophy on life and death and everyone’s place in between while remembering the names of everyone she met along the way. She insisted on paying a debt that had never even been noted, with a choice worth no less than a king’s ransom.

These were not the actions of a soulless monster. She would know better than most; she had lived with one for years. No, there _was_ something to Grey, somewhere buried beneath all the doctrine of death. And every time their paths crossed Dany would see a piece of that person, unnamed and forsaken, and feel herself responding even as all the good counsel in the world told her ‘ _stop_ ’.

She knew full well that Grey was an assassin. To hold that against her, all while considering having her ply her trade on Viserys would be a cruel hypocrisy. She was not a naïve little girl, and she had already accepted Grey’s ugly truths.

What she could not accept were the killer’s pretty lies.

Tightening her cloak around her shoulders, she headed south past the Isle of the Gods and walked a half-circle around the rocky knoll that fortified the House of Black and White, until she reached a set of wide stone steps cut into the face of the island outcropping. At the top of the stairs sat two massive doors that led into the imposing temple; an ebony and weirwood gateway smeared with dried blood that a barefoot, red-haired young woman was vigorously trying to scrub away.

Taking a deep breath and bracing herself with anger that would grant her sure footing, Dany began the brief ascent, feeling her heart start to quicken in her chest as she neared the top. The fastidious figure she’d seen from the base of the hill continued to scour diligently, oblivious to her presence.

“Hello,” she said to the acolyte, unsure of exactly how to proceed. “May I go in?”

Slight shoulders jerked with a start, and the acolyte turned to face her. “Oh please,” a deep, soft voice addressed her plaintively, drawing her attention to the lump at his throat, “if you’ve come to seek your end, I’d be much obliged if you could wait until this afternoon. You have no idea the night I’ve had.” Deep green eyes under long, thick lashes that only added to the mirage that opaqued the young man’s true gender looked up at her sorrowfully.

Daenerys shook her head. “I’m not here for that,” she said. “I just need to see Grey.”

A well-manicured brow furrowed with confusion in response.

Dany sighed. “Of course you don’t know that name… The Gentleman. I’m here to see The Gentleman.” She pulled out the battered iron coin Grey had given her, trusting in its influence.

“Ah!” Verdant eyes lit up with recognition. “She’s downstairs right now, with a few of the others.”

“Can you take me to her?”

The enchanting young man frowned. “I’m sorry my lady, but I can’t. I know you have a coin, but, I’m not permitted down there.” He paused, his eyes flickering to the untended smears that still marred the ebony door, and then back to her. “But she should be back up before long. I can take you inside to wait, if you’d like.”

“I would, thank you-” she waved her hand toward him in a gesture meant to encourage introduction.

“Oh, No One,” he said, taking her proffered hand and shaking it daintily.

Dany groaned inwardly, and found herself drawing from already depleted reserves of patience. “My name is Dany,” she said, guiding him. “And what is it the rest of the… members, call you here?”

“Oh! Pretty Boy,” he said with a sheepish smile. “Or sometimes just ‘hey you’.” Delicate hands set down their bucket and washcloth, and set to pulling open the great weirwood door.

Surprised at finding a bit of unexpected humanity, Daenerys couldn’t help but let out a small laugh at just how appropriate the epithet was. “I can see where that came from,” she said, following him into the foyer of death’s house, her eyes adjusting to the dim light of flickering candles as she stood in the birthplace of dark rumor.

“It was meant as no kindness to me, my lady,” he said with note of melancholy. “It was a taunt, just like all the rest.”

“A taunt?” Dany asked, following her morose guide to the edge of the pool that she’d heard so many whispers of along the docks, seating herself beside him.

“Oh yes, all of the names we’re given are japes of some sort. Made unpleasant to ensure we don’t find any sort of comfort in having a permanent title, I presume. Some are obvious, like mine, whereas others strike a little bit deeper – like in the case of your Gentleman.”

“What about The Gentleman?” Dany asked, intrigued.

Pretty Boy exhaled slowly. “I don’t know the whole story,” he said. “But from what I have heard, it had something to do with a whore she fell in love with.”

Violet eyes widened, and Dany’s jaw went slack. Her mind raced and her mouth tried to form around words, but failed miserably.

“Or was it the other way around?” Pretty Boy continued, brow creased as he sifted through his recollections. “I think it was the other way around, actually. The whore was in love with her.”

Dany could only gape, grateful that she was already sitting down.

“Anyways,” Pretty Boy carried on, unaware of the emotional tempest that raged beside him, “it’s said that the woman was quite fair, and offered herself to the Gentleman, who would not bed her for the deception of the face she had worn, despite longing for her.”

“Oh,” Dany finally breathed out, “that is…”

“Cruel.” Pretty Boy finished for her.

_Heartbreaking. Infuriating. Romantic. Intolerable. Vexing._ “Yes,” Dany agreed softly, suddenly feeling every inch the ignorant young woman she claimed so vehemently not to be. She had thought that The Gentleman was a reference to Grey’s disposition, as she’d always found the ghoul to be incredibly charming in her own gruff, unrefined sort of way, but never once had she imagined that someone _else_ had seen past her affiliations to discover that in her as well. And that exclusion made her as much a fool as any pretty lie she may have believed.

“How could anyone possibly want to stay somewhere that causes such grief?” Daenerys asked, falling short of the understanding she desperately sought.

“Well, we all have our reasons,” Pretty Boy said, brushing an errant crimson lock behind his ear. “For some, it’s faith; belief in a purpose beyond this world and wanting to find a place in that grand design. For others it’s a calling from the Many-Faced God himself. And then there are those for whom I guess being No One is just preferable to whatever life it was they left behind.”

“And which of those paths led you here?” Daenerys asked the thoughtful young man, wondering just how the Faceless Men would turn such a gentle soul into a scarred assassin.

“None of them, my lady. I was granted to this House as payment.”

“As _payment_?” Dany’s eyes narrowed as her pulse quickened at the admission. “You’re a slave, then?”

Pretty Boy shook his head. “No, it’s not like that. I agreed to serve here, in exchange for… a service.” He said evasively. “Needless to say, the House of Black and White got the short end of the bargain. Seems I’m not cut out for any of this.”

“Perhaps not,” a smooth, quiet voice spoke from behind them. “You talk far too much, for starters.”

Dany turned to see Grey standing at the other side of the pool, white sleeves rolled up around her elbows as she dried her forearms with a handtowel. Gone was the hawkishly handsome face she’d worn beneath the wolf at the masquerade, replaced by her own predatory, angled lines and a fresh wound that ran down the length of her scar. She was still dressed in the same finery she’d worn at the Sealord’s Palace the night before, though her cape and doublet were gone, and the laces at the top of her shirt hung loosely around her collar, emphasizing just how disheveled the sleepless early morning hours had left her.

Pretty Boy rose to his feet. “I’m sorry,” he said nervously, “but she had a coin, so I thought-”

“-where are those fine sandals you’re always prancing around in?” Grey asked, glancing down at his bare feet and clipping short his explanation.

“My… oh. Yes. Well, a boy came in last night, looking to pilfer something, so I took off my sandals and gave them to him like you suggested-”

Grey cursed and closed her eyes, raking a hand through her unkempt hair. “I was _kidding_ , Pretty Boy.”

“-and he left right away, which was nice, and… kidding? Oh…”

“What did the boy look like?” Grey asked with a sigh.

“About this tall,” Pretty Boy held up his hand to the mid-level of his chest, “with dark hair and a scar on each cheek.”

“Hm. That would be Rasco. I’ll pay him a visit later and get them back for you. But for now,” Grey tilted her head toward the shadowed entryway she’d come in through, “go get some rest. I need to speak with Dany.”

The acolyte flashed a grateful smile, and left as he was bid.

“Have you come to claim your service, my lady?” Grey asked as Dany took to her feet and strode around the pool, stopping just short of the assassin.

“No,” Dany said, feeling a heady rush of both rage and desire as she looked up at the object of her frustration, recalling the anger that had driven her to the temple to begin with. Before the killer could speak another word, Daenerys raised her hand back and slapped it hard across Grey’s face. “Don’t you _ever_ lie to me again,” the dragon whispered through clenched teeth, her palm hot and stinging as she stood fearless before a member of the murderous elite.

Slate eyes were unreadable as Grey slowly turned to face her, a thread of bright red winding its way down her jaw where the blow had re-opened her wound. “I can see that you’re upset,” she said coolly, “and I’m sure I know why. But this is not the place to discuss it.” She glanced around, checking to see if the noise had drawn the attention of anyone else. “Come with me.”

 

**………..**

 

Grey had borrowed her iron coin back from Daenerys just long enough to invoke _valar dohaeris_ on a ferryman, taking his skiff and promising to return it later that afternoon. Whatever it was she had to say, she would risk no one else hearing any of it. Still every inch The Gentleman despite Dany’s outrage, she took the princess by the hand and eased her on to the swaying watercraft, then began to pole them southeast down the canal.

“Where are we going?” Dany asked, breaking the silence she’d held since they’d left the House of Black and White.

“To Silty Town,” Grey said, flint eyes scanning the wide expanse of empty water ahead of them. “Where Rasco lives.

“Pretty Boy’s young thief?”

Grey nodded. “And in the meantime,” the assassin rubbed her cheek, “ you can tell me just when it was you forgot that I was a ghoul, and decided to take my assignments so personally.”

“It _was_ personal,” Daenerys said pointedly. “You told me that you were there to help Qarro keep everyone safe. You held me, danced with me, kissed me, made me think that you…” her voice trailed off, and Dany turned away. “And the whole time, you were just using me as cover to _kill someone_.”

“Not the whole time, no,” Grey said gently. “But I’m sorry… for making you think I was something better than I really am.”

_She doesn’t even try to deny it. Maybe Lylah was right after all._

They carefully passed by another skiff bearing a rough-looking man headed to the Moonsinger’s Temple to repent of his Uncloaking sins, and continued down the canal beneath the sloping aqueduct of the Sweetwater River. “You know, when I brought you home last night,” Grey said quietly, “the Sealord’s brother was already beyond saving. The job was long done.” She hesitated a moment, her usual confidence momentarily breached by something almost akin to sensitivity. “I kissed you at your door for no other reason than because I wanted to.”

“You… wanted to?” Dany was taken aback.

Grey struck the pole to the bottom of the waterway and held, stopping them. Fully recovered from her brief emotional falter, a grin tugged at her lips, lopsided and irresistible, and Dany could feel herself fighting to remember why she was ever angry with her in the first place. “You’re a beautiful woman, Dany. I’m a ghoul - not _dead_.”

“Was she beautiful too?” The words had slipped from her lips before she could think to stop them, launched and barbed like steel bolts, and she regretted the passing of each when she saw them strike true.

“The acolyte speaks out of turn,” Grey said as something mournful passed her roguish features, like the crossing of a warm, sad wind.

“I’m sorry,” Dany said tenderly, seeking to smooth the rough touch of her thoughtless words. “It’s not my place to ask about her.”

“It’s alright.” Grey gripped the pole with white knuckles as she pushed it out again, cutting them through the water once more. “The truth behind my name is name is the least of my secrets that you’re carrying now.”

“I’ll never speak of it,” Dany assured her, just starting to become aware of the danger her temperamental outburst may have put her in. “Never.”

“I trust that you won’t. Because if you do,” Steel eyes met violet and held them soberly, “it could get us both killed. Along with many others.”

They passed the next southeastern half-mile bound under the heavy mantle of the truth that they shared, before Grey finally stopped the skiff and tied it beside one of Silty Town’s rough-hewn docks. “Silty Town, my lady,” the assassin said with a smirk and a wink as she helped Dany disembark. “Don’t say I never take you anywhere nice.”

True to its name, Silty Town was made of up everything the floods had left behind after rushing through: floods of dark, brackish water; floods of runaway slaves and retired pitfighters; floods of Braavosi citizens escaping the continual collapse of Drowned Town; floods of dockworker toughs that needed cheap housing; floods of sourweed chewers and those who lived for drink – Silty Town was home to them all.

It was the one place in Braavos Dany had never been permitted to go.

“We’ll only be a few minutes, I promise,” Grey said as she offered Dany her arm. “Just stay close.”

The uneven streets were little more than well-tread ruts pressed into dried mud, winding around makeshift homes that sagged and warped under the constant damp of the sea air. Some abodes were stacked one on top of the other, tiny, cramped dwellings that offered little beyond a place to lay your head after the bottle of wine fell from your hands. Every shop was dingy and more closely resembled a tavern, with crooked signs and faded paint and windows stained by years of pounding, dirty rain.

“So, who is Rasco?” Dany asked, instinctively tightening her grip on Grey’s arm as she led them towards what appeared to be a large, slanted storehouse.

“He’s a wharf rat,” Grey explained. “A ‘procurer of insights’ who works for the Wharf King.”

“The Wharf King?” Dany blinked. “I thought he was just a story.”

Grey chuckled. “Most who live in Purple Harbor do. He’s real, though, make no mistake.”

They came to a stop in front of the ramshackle structure, and Grey lifted her hand, blowing a loud whistle through her thumb and middle finger. “Rasco!” she called up to the splintered window. “Come out here!”

Dany could hear a thunk coming from somewhere within the derelict, and the window opened just enough for a young boy’s voice to spill out: “Not doin’ it ghoul, he gave ‘em up without a fight! I tell Fink over at the docks I was slick enough to take a ghoul’s sandals without ‘im noticin’, and I’ll have it made!”

“Come on, Rasco. You know Pretty Boy’s no ghoul. Hasn’t even earned his scar. And you can bet Fink knows that too.”

“Yeah, well…” uncertainty quickly replaced bravado. “He might not.”

“He does, Rasco. So come out and hand them over, and maybe I’ll give you something else to show Fink.”

There was silence for a moment, and then the telltale thuds of small feet dashing down a short flight of stairs. A rusty latch squealed in annoyance, and a dark haired boy of about ten summers stepped out into the morning drab, holding a pair of tightly-stitched and finely embroidered sandals.

_There’s something familiar about him_ , Dany thought, furrowing her brow. _Where have I met this boy before?_

“It better be something _good_ ,” the wharf rat asserted as he approached Grey. “These are worth a-” Rasco stopped mid-sentence, his dark eyes widening as he looked up at Daenerys. “It’s you,” he breathed.

“Rasco… do you know Dany?” Grey asked, her confusion evident.

“ ‘Dany?’” The boy repeated incredulously, turning to look at Grey as if she were an ill-bred, backwoods simpleton. “This is Daenerys Targaryen, exiled princess from across the Narrow Sea, ghoul. And she’s also the Chainbreaker who set me free two years ago.”

 

**…………**

**AN: Yes, there was a hint of Jealous!Dany in this chapter, for my readers who love her.  
**


	12. The Mockingbird and the Last Dragon

The best friends to have were those who already had one foot in the grave.

Those friends, they sought to make the most of what time was left to them, considering their priorities and legacy with a gravity that opened their minds to the unconventional and drastic. Words such as ‘treachery’, ‘risk’, ‘uncertainty’, and even ‘treason’ became toothless threats to them; when you are near the end of your days you tend to worry far less about them being cut short.

For these reasons, amongst others, Petyr Baelish had come to consider The Queen of Thorns a very, very good friend.

Mutual ambitions had initially brought them together, and it was nothing short of regicide that bound them since the day Joffrey Baratheon took a long drink from an unfortunate cup. And now, as a sandstorm prepared to rage under the wings of the last Dragon to bear him to the Iron Throne, it was time to prepare a deadly echo of that first success.

“Is this the same ship you smuggled the Stark girl away on, then?” Olenna asked as she approached him, her wrinkled lips pinched with condescension as she motioned with her cane for her two hulking guards, Erryk and Arryk, to stay put behind her. “It barely looks seaworthy.”

“It is, my lady. Forgive the humble appearance of the vessel, I find it best to travel modestly so as not to attract undue attention.” He offered the Highgarden crone his arm, and led her to the small, unassuming cabin that was his seafaring abode.

Once inside, the withered rose took a careful seat at the rough-hewn table that served as the cabin’s sole hospitality, every motion slow and deliberate. Though Olenna’s mind was still as sharp as her tongue and she was not nearly as frail as she presented herself to be, her body _had_ given ground to the ravages of time, and every pull on her joints strained. “So tell me, Lord Baelish, that you’ve brought me news worth missing lunch for.” Her breath was sour, a queer mix of age and decay that Petyr found distasteful. He had to school his features to avoid grimacing when she spoke.

“I’ve just returned from making overtures to my complacent friend in Dorne.” He said.

“Hmmph. And just how terribly did _that_ go?” Olenna asked with a sniff, as if it weren’t even a question.

Littlefinger rested his elbows on the table, and steepled his hands. “Not as badly as you would think. However, the man is still besotted with memories of former Targaryen greatness. He will decide nothing until he has taken the measure of Viserys himself.”

“And that alone,” Olenna stamped the tip of her cane on the floor, “is our signal to act. We have no time for Doran to see through whatever façade Viserys may present to him upon arrival. My sources are sure, as are yours.”

“Indeed they are.” Littlefinger slid a thumb and forefinger down the length of his grizzled chin. “But before we set events in motion, are you absolutely certain there is no chance that Margaery is with child?”

“Positively.” Olenna snorted derisively. “Although the boy’s grown enough to put a little hair on his balls, he still has no idea how to actually use them. Margaery remains intact.”

_Three husbands yet the girl still remains a maid, as a trail of royal corpses grows behind her. Doran is not a fool – I’m sure it isn’t only Targaryen sentimentality that brokers his hesitation._ “And how will the virtuous Queen take to losing the crown she has become so accustomed to? That she has so skillfully endured for?” Petyr asked.

Seasoned eyes looked hard at him. “It is not Margaery who decides the fate of House Tyrell. She may not like what has to be done, but she _will_ accept it.”

There was no doubt she would have far more eagerly embraced a new marriage to Quentyn Martell to keep what she held so dear, but that would require Doran to come to his senses regarding Viserys – and that became more and more unlikely each day that passed with him staring out at that pool full of children, remembering the gentle heart of Daenerys.

“How long will it take you to ready your soldiers in the Reach?” Petyr asked.

The old woman licked her wilted lips. “House Tyrell will supply ten thousand soldiers to this venture. They can be ready by the next moon. The rest of our men must stay within the Reach, close to the capital, should the Faith Militant decide to act against Tommen and endanger Margaery.”

Petyr nodded. “Ten thousand should be plenty. I’ll have the young Lord Arryn call upon the loyal banners of the Vale to match that number. A combined force of twenty thousand well-armed men will be more than enough to oust the Boltons from Winterfell, and reinstate Sansa Stark.” His lips curled back into a smirk. “In fact, once the northerners see Lady Sansa returning by my side at the head of an army, they’ll likely spare us most of the trouble and turn on Roose and his men themselves. They were never fond of Tywin’s selection for Warden of the North.”

“No they weren’t, were they?” Olenna rested her thin-skinned hands on top of her cane, blue veins bulging. “And I can’t say that I blame them. Wartime or not, his part in that entire nasty business with Walder Frey was worthy of one of their own vile flayings.”

“It was. And as the saying goes: ‘The North Remembers’. They’ll know exactly who to thank for returning the true Stark heir to Winterfell, and when the time comes to march on King’s Landing, Highgarden will have the full support of a united North behind them. No doubt you’ll find them all quite eager to dispatch the inevitable Lannister resistance you’ll come against.”

Petyr had a gift for spotting shifts in power long before they were destined to occur. When Robert Baratheon seized the Iron Throne and married Cersei Lannister, he knew it would actually be the Lions ruling Westeros, regardless of who actually sat on the melted blades. He made it a point to continually serve House Lannister interests during his appointment as Master of Coin, manipulating figures and shifting wealth to line the appropriate pockets, including his own, while beggaring the realm to keep it beholden to Lannister generosity.

It was Ned Stark’s time as Hand and the truth he uncovered about Robert’s so-called heirs that had prompted the winds of change, and aligned Petyr’s interest with those of the Tyrells. As he continued to operate freely under the goodwill he’d earned within the lions’ regime, he became the bridge over which Tyrell soldiers rode to a last-minute rescue of King’s Landing from Stannis Baratheon, and the lady Margaery walked over to a royal engagement. The lion-blooded Baratheon king had rewarded him with Harrenhal for the measure, and the Tyrells had rewarded him with something that had proven even more valuable: their trust.

He had the trust of the family that would soon be ruling over Westeros, after an assuredly successful bid for power he had already named the ‘Rose Rebellion’. The ground forces of the Reach, supported by the strength of the Vale, the naval power of the Redwyne Fleet and the unified North would be more than enough to overcome the few Baratheon loyalists left in the Stormlands, the disorganized, declining Lannister army, and even Dorne and their Targaryen puppet. Once young Tommen was overthrown, Lord Willas Tyrell would be set upon the Iron Throne, and anointed in the light of the Seven as King.

“This will change things somewhat, from our original arrangement.” Olenna said, undoubtedly referring to the fact that Sansa would be the most suitable bride for Willas once the dust settled, as she had originally planned before Tywin ran roughshod over her scheme by wedding her to Tyrion.

“But of course, my Lady. Once again I assure you, the imp did not defile her, she remains pure-”

Olenna waved her hand. “That is not my concern. She is a maid if I **say** she is; it’s not like Willas will be able to tell the difference anyways. No, it’s the peace from the union that I want more than anything; to bind the historically unruly North to the crown, lest some of the bolder winter houses continue to nurse that sickly dream of independence.”

If it was the complete submission of the north the Queen of Thorns was after, it was not only Sansa he would have to give up to make the new Tyrell monarchy a reality – it was also his long-sought prize: Winterfell.

From the moment he’d lain in a pool of his own blood, looking up at Brandon Stark’s sure sword and smug face, he’d vowed to himself that one day, everything that man cared for would become his own. ‘ _Kill me_ ,’ he’d muttered, before Cat had come running to stay her intended’s hand. ‘ _Or one day I’ll take everything you hold dear._ ’

Brandon had only laughed, that cocky, arrogant laugh of his, and pressed his sword to Petyr’s throat.

As if he were a joke.

“I would have you named Warden of the North, to hold in trust until Sansa bears a son.” Olenna continued. “Then, he shall be both heir to the Iron Throne _and_ to the North; a lynchpin to unite the regions and end any future rancor before it starts.”

“You honor me with such trust.” The Mockingbird sang in his pitch-perfect imitation of humility as he pictured the puckered scar that ran the length of his torso beneath his shirt.

“Don’t play the humble servant card with me, Lord Baelish. It may have fooled a drunken Lannister or two well enough, but you and I both know your ambitions run higher than that.” The old woman shifted, her silks rustling. “While you hold the North for my great-grandson, the political landscape of the South will be changing. Entire houses will crumble, and in their wake new families and names will be lifted.”

Eyes that had witnessed firsthand the rise and fall of entire dynasties bored into him, clear and bright inside the sagging skin that encased them. “You’ve been a good friend to House Tyrell, and it’s always for the best if friends stay close.” She paused for a moment, weighing her words. “It just so happens that Storm’s End is very, very close.”

“But my lady, Lord Stannis-”

“Once Lord Stannis is proven dead, as he is like to be, the Baratheon line will be finished. Storm’s End will be granted to a new charge, with proven allegiance to House Tyrell and its interests.” A tremor ran through her small body, shaking her cane beneath her ghostly hands. “You’d have never been accepted by the north anyways, you know, not truly.”

It should have vexed him more than it did, the truth of her words. But his mind was already too busy calculating and adjusting for this change in plans. Though he wanted Winterfell, and the beautiful mirror image of young Cat that came bundled with it, it was never his end goal.

As Lady Olenna said, Storm’s End was very, very close. And if Sansa was already in the Red Keep practiced in the art of being Queen, so much the better. It would serve to make things that much simpler later on.

Yes. This could certainly work to his advantage.

 

**………**

 

It was nothing more than a thin line against the morning horizon, but when the afternoon sun reached its zenith, he’d be able to see its shores for the first time.

He’d been stuck for weeks on the ship, experiencing each of the seven hells one by one. His stomach had roiled with the waves the first few days, keeping him bedridden except for the occasional lurch to retch into the bucket that held his sickness. When there was nothing left for him to offer the filthy basin, he’d simply sat up and heaved, belching up stench that burned his nose and the back of his throat. When he needed to relieve himself, he’d barely been able to drag his shaking frame to the deck to do so, and once he’d even stumbled with the crash of a swell and pissed on the upper leg of his fine pants. Too weak to change himself, he had to just lay in it, another stink permeating the air around him.

It was all a disgusting affair, far beneath both a King and a dragon. And to make matters worse, he was enduring it alone.

Daenerys should have been with him, to clean up the mess and tend to his many discomforts. She was supposed to take care of him; to _please_ him.

But she seemed to be forgetting her role in things.

It was Ser Willem’s fault, really. He’d doted on the girl, ever since Viserys could remember. He’d intervened once too often when it wasn’t his right, and it gave Dany strange notions about her place in the world, and how she should behave towards her King. He had endured it for years as a display of compassion, knowing full well what was said about his father, but in return his mercies had only been abused.

The old knight’s attempt to arrange a marriage for her outside of his will and design had been the final straw. He had nearly ruined everything.

His blood spoke to him, sometimes in loud, piercing screams, and sometimes in soft whispers, showing him the way of the world and how it had all gone so wrong – how magic had faded, how the dragons had all died away, and how the Targaryen reign was eventually usurped.

It was all of the dalliances with lesser beings.

The blood of the dragon was never meant to mingle with that of non-Valyrians; it was like trying to mix clean spring water with mire filth – the end result would always be nothing more than mud. Blackfyres and lovechild half-breeds had diluted Targaryen potency, turning the exquisite into the commonplace. It had even dwindled the hereditary gift his ancestors had meant to bestow upon him – unlike the dragons who came before, he could _burn_ , as if he were no better than some straw-chewing farmer. That’s how far the degradation had gone.

But there was still time to set things right, so long as he had Dany.

Viserys would take this sandslave princess as a first bride, he _had_ to – but she would not mother any of his heirs, he would see to that. That would be Dany’s responsibility as his second, true wife, to ensure that the next generation of Targaryens remained _pure_. Ser Willem, in his low-birthed ignorance, had plotted to potentially defile the womb of his children by entertaining other suitors interested in his sister. So, in turn, he simply took action to preserve their future by making her worthless to anyone else.

And now he could do what had to be done without worrying about how she was keeping. She was claimed as his, and she’d be waiting for his summons.

Ser Willem, on the other hand – lesser being or not, he had woken the dragon, and he _would_ feel his wrath.

But not just yet.

For now, he had a primitive desert wife to wed and bed, and Seven Kingdoms to conquer.

 

**........**

**AN: Back to Braavos next chapter, I promise =P**


	13. Not Who They Seem

Things had been much easier when she’d thought that Dany was just another wealthy woman from blue-blooded Purple Harbor, looking for a bit of excitement.

_‘You’re from Westeros, then.’_

_‘No. Not really – I was born on Dragonstone, but Ser Willem smuggled me and my brother away when I was only a few days old. I’ve never been across the Narrow Sea since. Braavos is the only home I’ve known.’_

It was a logical assumption; after all, it’s not like the violet-eyed beauty would be the first sheltered lady to crave a bit of adventure and dally with a mysterious ghoul. In fact, it was downright common: she could list off a number of brothers who regularly wore the most comely faces in the temple during missions for the sole purpose of seducing women far above their standing. And if these women found themselves with child as a result of their careless trysts, they had no way of ever hunting down the father to make him account for his part in it all. ‘Scar-bastards’, these unclaimed progeny were called, and there were more than a few of them scattered throughout the districts of Braavos, along with the rest of the Free Cities.

It was distasteful conduct that had always nettled at her sense of honor, a lone piece of the late Arya Stark which had never needed to be fully caged with the rest in order to serve. And although it _was_ frowned upon, the practice was not forbidden by the House of Black and White.

The Many-Faced God was one of the few deities that did not demand a vow of celibacy to join his service.

_‘Why didn’t you tell me?’_

_‘Which part? That I’m an exile, that I’m a Targaryen, or that I’m a Chainbreaker?’_

_‘Any of it.’_

_‘I… didn’t think it should matter. After all, I don’t even know **your** true name.’ _

A buxom tavern wench filled No One’s tankard, and ran her fingers through the ghoul’s unkempt hair. “Whoever she is, honey, a few mugs of this and you’ll forget her by morning.”

Steel eyes glanced up quizzically.

No One received an easy smile in return for her curiosity. “Oh, I’ve been at this a while, ghoul. Anytime I see a face as fallen as yours, it’s always because of a woman. I imagine that little truth doesn’t change just because the face happens to have a scar ‘longside it.”

The scar in question tugged as No One grinned up at her insightful hostess. “You’re quite clever, you know. Maybe you should consider joining our order.” She said with a wink.

The clever wench just chuckled. “Oh honey, if I were a few years younger I just might, if only to enjoy the scenery,” she countered suggestively, “but no, I’ve found my place here.”

“And the Many-Faced God is all the poorer for it.” The ghoul said, lifting her tankard in an appreciative salute.

It was hard to tell in the dim light, but No One could have sworn she saw the woman’s cheeks flush. “Charmer. I’ll be back to check on you soon enough.”

“I’ll be here.” The killer said quietly, setting her stein back down as the top-heavy serving girl walked away.

_‘That’s different.’_

_‘Why? Because you serve at the House of Black and White? Do you think that ghouls are the only people who wish they were someone else sometimes, Grey?’_

Slate eyes closed, trying to block out the royal vulnerability that still haunted them.

_‘I can never safely be Daenerys Targaryen while my brother has claim to the Iron Throne of Westeros. I want no part of that wretched chair, but they’ll kill me as quickly as him just to keep it for themselves. Do you know what that’s like, Grey? To have to live your life in hiding simply because of the name you bear?’_

She knew all too well. And it was right at that moment she had _wanted_ Dany, as selfish as any scar-bastard’s sire. She wanted to pull the tiny princess into her arms and tell her ‘ _yes’_ , that she _did_ know her pain and fear. That she’d sold her soul to the Many-Faced God to be free of it; that before she had become No One she had been Arya Stark, scion of Winterfell and possibly the last surviving member of her own exiled bloodline. She’d wanted to confess her sins to the gentle princess: oaths broken, lies and murders, all in the name of a quest for revenge she’d long since abandoned, and find her absolution in the warmth of Dany’s kiss.

Thankfully, Rasco’s presence and demand for fair exchange had ensured that she’d only lost a boot dagger, rather than her entire self to a foolish whim.

_‘No… I don’t know how it feels to be a Targaryen.’_

No One lifted her mug and tilted her head back, drinking from it deeply.

_‘Please Grey, never speak to anyone of this. It would put Ser Willem’s entire household in even more danger.’_

_‘I’ll never betray you, Dany.’_

The brew was strong enough to finally quiet the howling in her mind, and burn the memory of Dany’s taste from her lips.

No One winced, feeling a wicked heat spread and bloom within her chest.

_I just need to stay away from her, from now on._

Except she wouldn’t be able to, at least, not entirely – not while Dany was a Chainbreaker.

The House of Black and White had been founded by the first Faceless Men; slaves who had given their fellow labored servants the mercy of the Gift in the mines of Old Valyria to end their suffering. A hatred for slavery still burned within the order to this day, and as such, the ghouls served in unrecognized, shadowed support of the Chainbreakers. Whenever a wharf rat caught wind of a bounty hunter closing in on a target in Braavos, he’d rush word to the Wharf King. News of bounty hunters always fetched a premium price, and the more details the wharf rat could provide, the better his payout. The Wharf King would send word of the intended strike to the Kindly Man at the House of Black and White, and within minutes of receipt a Faceless Man would be assigned to intercept and send the hunter to the Many-Faced God before he ever came near his quarry.

She’d been tasked with killing one herself, once. He’d been set to seize a shepherd named Rafe.

It had been hard for her to imagine Dany as a Chainbreaker at first. Though it was a noble undertaking, it was also hard and ugly – two characteristics she could never associate with the princess. You needed a strong stomach to face some of the gruesome realities those unfortunates were running from. According to Rasco’s account, Dany not only had that, but a steady hand as well – it was her own blade that skillfully burned away tattoos designating servitude from new arrivals.

She truly was a dragon.

No One took another drink, exhaling slowly as tendrils of warmth blossomed from her chest up her neck and curled around the tips of her ears. She had just begun to contemplate the reason for the surprising strength behind Dany’s earlier slap, when the strings of a lute accompanied by a sweet, all-too familiar voice cut through the pleasant haze of her thoughts.

“It can’t be.” The ghoul muttered under her breath, looking across the room. “You’re supposed to be at Moroggo’s…”

There, on the stage of the Titan’s Tankard, stood Nadene.

With blue eyes as deep as the sea, and cascading blonde hair that shimmered, Nadene silenced a room that had been filled only seconds earlier with drunken laughter, jeers, and wagers. Brilliant cerulean scanned over the tavern, locking with guarded slate long enough to make No One’s heart trip over a beat.

_Does she... does she recognize me?_ The assassin wondered, incredulous. She never would have believed it possible before, but her experience with Dany had her second-guessing.

In the space of a blink, Nadene turned her focus elsewhere, and began to sing.

It was a tale of longing; soulful sadness spun into lyrical gold as the softly accented Braavosi fell from her lips and echoed throughout the room. The ghoul drained her tankard as she watched, mesmerized, allowing herself to indulge in the old ache of Dane’s memories.

When the last string was pulled and the song ended, silence reigned over the drunkards like a king. There was not a word spoken, not a move made until one man, silver-haired and bent under his years, slowly stood up and began to clap.

One by one the tipsy lemmings followed their aged leader, each rising and joining him in applause. No One refused to join their ranks, instead clapping in the dark corner that was her own, the ghost of a smile on her lips.

The ghoul watched as the vibrant songstress stepped back down, and made her way through a throng of admirers to reach the tavernkeep.

Time had exaggerated none of Dane’s memories. If anything, it had sold Nadene short – she had never been so entirely exquisite in any of those humble recollections.

It left her wondering just how it was Dane had ever resisted her.

“Starting to forget her, yet?” The clever wench asked as she looked down at No One’s empty stein with a knowing grin.

“How could I possibly think of anyone else with you here taking such good care of me?” No One replied smoothly, despite a slight slur.

“Flattery will get you everywhere with _me_ , ghoul,” she responded with a sigh, “though it seems not everyone feels the same.”

“Oh?” A dark brow raised questioningly. “Is everything alright?”

No One’s voluptuous host pulled out a seat in front of her. “Not really. You know that singer who just dropped everyone’s jaw to the floor a few minutes ago?”

A quick nod. “I do. She’s quite talented.”

“She’s a Lifebound cunt.” The once gracious hostess said flatly. “And she’s just informed my boss that she won’t get back up on stage to finish her set until you’ve left the tavern.”

_Oh.. so… **that’s** what that look she gave me was about. Of course. _

“I see.” No One said softly. “Well, I’d best be on my way then.”

“I’m sorry,” the busty servant said as she looked down. “Some folks are just… afraid.”

“It’s alright.” No One said as she got up, setting a few coins on the table. “I know what I am.” She started to walk away, then turned and looked over her shoulder at the abashed woman. “Thank you for your kindness tonight.”

Something was called out behind her, but No One didn’t really hear it.

 

**………**

 

It was a clear night, a rarity for the lagoon city. The air was crisp against No One’s flushed skin as she made her way westward across the cobblestones towards Drowned Town.

Though she would have appreciated another drink, she had to admit that Nadene’s dismissal had cauterized the emotions and confusion she’d been seeking to seal away with just as much efficiency. Dany may have made her forget the Gentleman’s curse for a time, but it would not happen again.

She was No One, one of the most feared assassins in all of Essos. She had no time to waste on useless fragments of desire.

She did, however, have time for gratitude.

Aside from unexpectedly running into Dany at the Sealord’s Masquerade, she had completed her mission without a hitch, all thanks to the Wharf King endeavoring on her behalf. She still had no idea how he managed to get his hands on one of those tickets (and in truth she probably wouldn’t like the answer if she did), and that was to say nothing for the fine clothing he’d sent along with it – he had spared no expense, and all just for the sake of ensuring her success.

She owed him her personal thanks, at the very least. And now was as good a time as any.

She jumped from the edge of the half-submerged pier that remained loosely connected to the Braavos mainland to one of the makeshift docks that linked around what was left of Drowned Town, shifting with the swollen timber to catch her balance as it swayed. Once righted, she followed the waterlogged path around a few of the degrading structures until she reached the leaning architecture she was looking for. Taking a running leap, she launched herself at the sloped roof, fingertips finding purchase around the edge, and lifted herself up on top of it.

_Almost there_.

She unbuckled her belt, laying it down along with her blade and pulled off her boots, setting it all into an orderly pile on the angled rooftop. Her head still pleasantly buzzing from the liquid fire she’d consumed at the Titan’s Tankard, she drew in a deep breath, then leapt into the still water below.

It was cold when she cut through the murky black, colder than she remembered it ever being before – but then again, she was still running hot. She kicked her feet and reached out, palming slippery stones until she found the familiar, empty frame of a beautiful window that had long washed away. She dove deeper, pulling herself in through the opening, then swam up inside the flooded tower, ascending through a school of tiny fish until she finally broke through the surface.

Chest heaving, she greedily gulped in breaths of dank air, treading water in front of the split, ramshackle spiral staircase. Once her eyes adjusted to the dark, she shook the water from her hair and hoisted herself up on to the first step, nearly falling back when the soggy remains of the bannister broke apart under her grip.

“Whoreson!” she spat, shaking soft splinters of damp, rotted wood from her hand. “You know, Wharf King,” she called up the stairs as she began her cautious ascent, “as much as you love this place, I have to admit I won’t be sorry to see you in new surroundings. This has really-”

A loud screech echoed through the water, followed by a low, shuddering rumble.

_Oh no._

Ever so slowly, No One took a step back down, pausing as her weight settled on the sagging plank.

“Wharf King!” she called out. “Are you in here?”

Silence was her only response.

“Already moved on, I guess.” The ghoul muttered. _About time for me to do the same_.

Carefully, she took another step down, ears perked for any sound of strain. Hearing none, she continued her mindful descent with water dancing, light-footed grace.

No One had reached the second to last stair when erosion, pressure and time all gave way to the current that beckoned, and the tower collapsed around her.

 

**……….**

 

Dany bowed her head and spoke a quiet Valyrian prayer as the Chainbreakers all gathered under the first brilliant rays of sunrise. At the southern tip of Ragman’s Harbor, dockhands were loading the last crates of freight on to the Arlansa, a trading ship heading to Tyrosh with a cargo bay brimming with goods. Joining the payload was a blue-haired shepherd who would be tending the fifteen slaves set to embrace freedom in Braavos once trade was done.

“Why _blue_?” Rafe asked with a sigh.

Lylah smiled. “Because we thought you’d prefer it over orange or purple.”

Rafe looked aghast. “They really dye their hair those colors in Tyrosh?”

Dany smirked. “They do. Along with pink, green, and questionable shades of yellow.”

The shepherd glanced up at his blue bangs and sighed. “It… could be worse then, I suppose.”

Sera stepped up to him and ran her fingers through his shaggy hair playfully. “You know, I actually kind of like it. You should keep it like this when you get back – maybe I’ll finally let you take me out.”

Dany had to bite back a giggle when she saw Rafe’s eyes widen and a blush color his cheeks. It had been obvious to all of them that the poor man had been smitten with Sera for years, and for all that time she’d feigned ignorance to every one of his bumbling, yet earnest advances.

Perhaps that would change, once he returned home.

“Watch yourself,” Dagen said, clasping Rafe’s forearm. “This is the biggest group we’ve ever tried smuggling out at once. Those Tyroshi are as greedy as they come. Anything feels wrong, anything at _all_ , you back out. I mean it.”

“Then I’ll just have to make sure nothing goes wrong,” Rafe said soberly, “because there’s no way I’m leaving fifteen people to a fate worse than death.”

And a fate worse than death was exactly what would be waiting for them, if they were caught.

“Just be careful.” Lylah said, pulling him into a hug. “I know how much this trip means to you, but don’t forget how much you mean to all of _us_.”

“I’ll be alright,” he said, kissing the handmaiden’s cheek. “I promise.”

Once the others had said their farewells and Lylah stepped away, Dany took her place and held out a small sack of lemons to cobalt-headed Chainbreaker. “Don’t laugh,” she said, immediately spotting the mirth playing on his features, “you know they’ll prevent you from getting sick.”

Rafe shook his head and chuckled. “You and those lemons, Dany.” He took her offering, and smiled warmly. “Thank you.”

A piercing whistle blew, and a deckhand on the Arlansa waved his arm, motioning for Rafe to board.

“That’s my ticket then, ladies and gentlemen.” Rafe said with a sweeping bow. “I’ll see you all next turn of the moon.” And with that he walked the dock, and joined the rest of the good ship’s crew.

They all watched as the Arlansa weighed anchor and pulled out of the harbor; the same ritual they’d observed for countless voyages. There was no magic to it, no superstition or incantation – just a small group of like-minded companions honoring a risk taken, and sending every well wish they had on the breeze that billowed their friend’s sails, hoping they would be enough to guide him back home.

They waited until all they could see was a speck on the horizon, the morning sun lifted high and strong on their backs.

“The Novillo is due back from Lys in two days.” Dagen said gruffly. “Smaller ship, two families in the hold.”

“Then we’ll all meet back here in two days.” Lylah declared. “Sera, you find a safe haven for them.”

“Already have one in mind.” The little blonde said with a nod. “In two days, then.”

Dagen left first, then Sera, each taking their own convoluted routes home to discourage anyone who may try to follow them. Dany and Lylah were left to their own devices, watching as vendors began to set up shop for the day.

One in particular caught Dany’s eye.

_Merlayne’s._

Although she’d been feeling nauseous over the last few days, just the mere sight of Merlayne’s booth was enough to make her stomach growl.

“Lylah. Come with me.” She grabbed her caretaker’s hand before she could so much as utter a question, and pulled her toward a simple stall striped in green a few paces from the ferrymen. She smiled at the middle-aged woman tending it and handed her a few coins, and received two delicately wrapped honey roasted pears in exchange.

“Well, someone is feeling better I see!” Lylah said playfully. “This is certainly not the reaction I got when I tried to bring you breakfast earlier.”

“It was just too early to eat this morning!” Daenerys protested. “But now is the perfect time.”

Dany led Lylah down the length of an empty pier and slid off her sandals. She sat down at the edge, letting her feet dangle in the water as she handed one of the treats to her handmaid once she’d settled down beside her, and then set to unwrapping the wax parchment encasing her own.

_Heaven_ , Dany thought, lifting a slice to take a bite. _This is going to be absolute_ -

The sweet spice hit her tongue, and suddenly she started to heave, the pear toppling from her hand.

“My lady!” Lylah cried out, getting up on one knee beside her. “What’s wrong?”

“I don’t know,” Dany said shakily, trying not to retch. “I was fine, and then I just…” her voice trailed off and her shoulders shook as another dry heave rocked her.

“Dany,” Lylah asked, her brow tightening with worry, “how many days now have you felt unwell?”

“I.. don’t know,” Dany answered faintly, feeling a new wave of nausea roll over her, “a few days now, maybe a week.” She closed her eyes and took a slow, deep breath. “It’s hard to say. It just comes and goes. I was feeling fine a moment ago. I’ll be alright.”

“No,” Lylah said softly after a moment, “I’m not so sure about that, my lady.”

“What do you mean?” Dany asked, violet eyes kindled with apprehension.

“I mean this may just be only the beginning. We’ll have to summon a Maester to be certain, but… I think you may be with child.”

 

**………….**

**AN: I want to take a moment here to wish each and every one of my readers an absolutely excellent holiday season. Whatever you may celebrate, make it great!**


	14. The Cup and the Coin

For nearly two decades Ser Willem Darry had been guardian over the last Targaryens. He was already a seasoned veteran all those years ago, when he’d bundled little Dany in his arms and took Viserys by the hand to load them on to the ship at Dragonstone; an old soldier with nothing but his determined loyalty and a sworn oath to keep.

He was never meant to be a father. He’d never married, and the gods hadn’t equipped him with the temperament of a family man. His weapons had always been his children, and he intuitively understood their nature in a way he never could the young dragons in his care. More often than not throughout the years he’d found himself overwhelmed and bewildered by the growing royals, awkwardly trying to answer questions better fielded by a Maester while inadequately comforting the youthful hurts of skinned knees and broken hearts. He didn’t know what to say when Viserys fearfully asked just _what_ it was that had driven their father mad, just as he hadn’t known how to stop Dany from crying herself to sleep when she learned that their mother died giving birth to her, believing it was somehow her own fault.

But what he did know, what he _always_ knew - was what to do when they were threatened.

It wasn’t only warnings from the Spider that had enabled Viserys and Daenerys’ survival. It was also the wizened knight’s instincts – and they had never served him wrong.

Ser Willem pulled the blade from the thin man’s neck, and slowly eased his light frame down to the wooden floor. He watched as the Maester gurgled, blood bubbling over his lips as he gaped and twitched before finally stilling. He waited a moment for the scholar to piss himself, then knelt down on the dry side of him and lifted his chain, searching his thick robes.

He didn’t recognize this Maester who’d come to examine Dany, which was not enough on its own to unsettle him. After all, the Citadel trained hundreds of young men in the mental arts and sciences, and they came and went as was needed. It wasn’t that he was callow, either, he had enough links on his chain to assure Ser Willem that his training and knowledge base were adequate, and he conducted himself with a professionalism that spoke of experience.

There was just something _not right._

So after he’d confirmed Lylah’s suspicions about Dany’s condition and set out on his way, Ser Willem waited a few moments, then followed out behind him. He’d carefully weaved south through the bustling harbor crowds into central Braavos, following the dark mantle all the way home.

He cursed as he sliced his finger on a paring knife the Maester had tucked away up his sleeve, and continued patting him down.

He hadn’t bothered to question the Citadel’s disciple before ending him. Questions were noisy, and Ser Willem had learned that rarely did their answers yield any truth in these situations anyways. He knew in his bones the man was a spy, it was only a matter of finding out which master this particular dog served.

The old knight grimaced. Still nothing.

Could he have possibly been wrong?

Brow creased with vexation, he unlaced the Maester’s boots and pulled each one off, shaking them.

A small, folded piece of parchment fell to the floor.

Ser Willem picked up it, unfolding it, and tried to make sense of the inked gibberish on it. He could not. Whatever hand the note had been written in, it was foreign to him. What _was_ familiar was the sigil pressed into the bottom right hand corner by a signet ring, a spear piercing through the sun.

_House Martell_.

The old grizzly shook his head, tearing up the correspondence. _Prince Doran already suspects the truth about Viserys, then. He worries about a Targaryen bastard that may one day threaten the succession of Arianne’s children, and Dorne’s claim to the Iron Throne._

Shifting back on his heels, Ser Willem stood up and let out a sigh. He couldn’t keep this hidden from Daenerys any longer.

The blood he’d spilled would only buy her so much time.

 

**…………**

The cup was still steaming, filling the room with the bittersweet scents of tansy, mint, and wormwood.

It made Daenerys’ stomach roil.

Lylah had left the mug on her bedside table before heading out to the docks to help with the arrival of the _Novillo_ , insisting that she stay behind to rest. ‘ _You haven’t had more than a few hours sleep since you found out,’_ she’d said. ‘ _And it’s only two families coming in today. We won’t need everyone there to get them settled.’_

Then she kissed Dany’s forehead, set down the Moon Tea, and left.

And as the door closed, Daenerys felt something white-hot and raging begin to surge through her veins.

Even now, every decision she was expected to make revolved around _Viserys_.

She stared down at the black tea they expected her to drink, to kill ‘his’ child before anyone in Westeros found out about it.

To keep herself safe from those who coveted the Iron Throne for a little while longer.

As if she should have no say in any of it.

She saw her reflection in the still, dark surface of the brew. Nineteen years and a woman grown, and they still only saw a child when they looked at her - the little princess. Viserys’ little sister. The little dragon. Sheltered little Dany.

And she had no one to blame but herself for it. Because she’d spent her entire life being exactly those things.

No more.

“To the seven hells with Viserys!” she spat angrily, taking the cup and throwing it across the room to shatter against the wall.

The Mad King Reborn had taken everything he wanted, from all of them, for as long as she could remember. And even now, with thousands of leagues of sea in between them, his shadow still ruled the Darry household and seized at will, softening their footfalls and strangling their laughter in their throats. The memory of him, the ingrained habit of his presence still reigned over them, like a wasting sickness they all knew would end them someday.

Unless she ended him first.

She pulled out the iron coin she’d been holding close ever since Grey first escorted her home, and ran her fingertip along the deep scratch that cut across the hooded man imprinted upon it. For weeks she’d known what she wanted, _needed_ , even as she fought every dream and fantasy about it, condemning herself as a traitor for even thinking it.

But now, there was more than just him, and herself, to consider.

The child was _hers_ , regardless of Viserys’ pathetic role in its conception. A dragon-blooded heir to the Targaryen name, if not the crown so many desired. If Viserys was killed, it wouldn’t matter – the Targaryen line would carry on without him now, and she wouldn’t have to bear the sin of destroying her own dynasty in sparing the world his madness.

It was time. She would call in her marker, and have Viserys killed.

And then, like it or not, she would have to leave the house with the red door.

There was no way around it. Even if she did _not_ keep her child, it was only a matter of time before the dust settled in Westeros and the new monarch began the hunt for her as the last living Targaryen once again. Her line would always have a rightful claim to the Throne, and her very breath itself was viewed as a risk no ruler was willing to take. Keeping the child, especially if she had a son, would only guarantee the destruction of Ser Willem and his entire household if she was foolish enough to try to stay. She was not willing to endanger them all any more than she already had.

It was the most difficult decision she’d ever had to make. She couldn’t imagine waking up without seeing the lemon tree outside her window. She couldn’t imagine breaking her fast at a strange table, without the great wooden beams carved with friendly animal faces to keep her company. Viserys had always hated them, thinking them childish, but to lonely young Dany they’d been her first friends – she’d even secretly named each one of them. She couldn’t imagine stepping outside of a door that wasn’t bright red, into a garden that didn’t have Luco tending it with his oversized straw hat and earthy hands. She couldn’t imagine a kitchen without Lylah’s humming, strange songs from a land Dany had never seen, that became familiar comforts throughout the years.

But most of all, she couldn’t imagine what home would ever be without Ser Willem there.

Though the old knight had always made sure Dany knew just who she was and the lineage she descended from, when she was very small she still thought of Ser Willem as ‘father’, and had even called him such a few times. A mistake she quickly corrected, when Viserys had bloodied her for it once he had her alone. _Ser Willem is a servant! You are the blood of the dragon, Daenerys – don’t ever forget that again, or it’ll be even worse next time._

She may not have been Ser Willem’s blood, but he could have loved her no better even if she had been.

She felt her chest tighten, and an unwelcome heat sting the corners of her eyes. She rubbed the back of her hand against them, frustrated at her ill-timed weakness. Her entire life was about to take a drastic turn, she couldn’t afford to indulge in sentimental tears. Not now.

Kneeling at the foot of her bed, she opened the velvet-lined case that held the three dragon eggs she’d been gifted with. When she told Ser Willem she did not want to marry Aegon, if he really even _was_ Aegon, she had intended to return the gifts to her benefactor in Pentos. It had seemed wrong to keep them under the circumstance, but her guardian would not allow her, telling her they were not sent as an engagement gift, even if they’d hoped she would consider their proposal. She was a Targaryen, and those last relics of her homeland belonged in the hands of a dragon.

Carefully she lifted the deep green egg, pressing her cheek to it and closing her eyes. The stone always warmed quickly under her skin, and if she listened intently enough, sometimes she could almost imagine the faint thumping of an impossible heartbeat. She found it to be entirely soothing, and that calm, more than anything, was what she needed to prepare herself for what she needed to do.

Fate would deny her small bit of peace.

She heard the front door burst open, and hurried steps start toward her chamber. “My lady?” Lylah called from the other side of the door, her voice hoarse.

Dany gently set down the verdant egg and rushed to the door, opening it to reveal her red-eyed and distraught handmaid. “Gods, Lylah,” she reached out and pulled the Volantene into her arms, “what happened?”

Lylah’s shoulders shook as she silently sobbed against Dany. “The _Arlansa_ ,” she finally managed to choke out, “it’s gone.”

“What… what do you mean it’s gone…?” Dany asked, her voice tapering off as cold dread washed over her. _We just watched it sail away in good form two days ago_.

Lylah took a few shaking breaths, steadying herself. “Last night, there was a storm just south of the Braavosian Coastlands,” she said tremulously, “and lightning struck the mast. The day had been hot; the ship was bone-dry… it went up like tinder.”

_Rafe._

“Lylah,” Dany gripped her shoulders, “did anyone make it to shore? Did Rafe-”

“-no.” Lylah clipped, shaking her head and killing Dany’s hope before it had any chance to bloom. “They were too far out, and the flames spread too quickly. No one’s been found.” The handmaid brushed her tears away and swallowed hard. “Sera is devastated.”

_The Arlansa has burned away and sunk. Rafe is dead, and the slaves…_

“The slaves who are waiting,” Dany muttered, more to herself than to Lylah, “they’ll die. They’ll be killed if we can’t get another ship out to them…”

“Dagen already thought about that,” Lylah said with a sniff. “He’s willing to try to shepherd, but can’t find a ship making the trip that’s within our circle of confidence. And if he sails with someone we don’t know-”

“-he could end up handed over to the very slave masters we’re liberating from, or worse.” Dany finished, forlorn.

Lylah just nodded.

Dany reached into her pocket, thumbing the iron coin within.

_It’s not too late_.

“Lylah,” Dany said, her voice taking on a seldom-used note of command, “I need you to go to Dagen. Tell him to get in touch with our Tyroshi contact – have him move the slaves as soon as it’s safe, and keep them hidden for just a few more weeks.”

“But Dany, there are no ships we can trust to make the trip right now, and there’s no guarantee we’ll find one in time.”

“We’ll have one,” Daenerys said with conviction, “you have my word. Now please, go to Dagen, and I’ll take care of the rest.”

There was doubt in Lylah’s dark eyes, but she bowed her head and did as she was bid.

Exhaling slowly as Lylah left her room, Dany looked over at her dragon eggs, trying to draw strength from the long dormant magic that once lay within. _Gods help me_ , she prayed _._

She had only once chance to save them all.

**………**

 

Dany took a deep breath, steeling herself as she pulled open the great weirwood and ebony doors, and stepped into death’s house. Her violet eyes narrowed as they adjusted to the ever-shifting shadows of flickering candles while great stone gods encircled her, bearing down and seeming almost alive in a way she hadn’t noticed the first time she’d come in looking for Grey, blinded by her anger.

If only she still had that anger to draw from now.

She took a step forward, the soft echo of her sole swallowed up in the somber gloom that surrounded her. Just a few paces ahead, she could see a hunched figure in a black and white robe sitting at the far edge of the pool in the center of the antechamber, dipping a black cup into its fatal waters.

“Have you come to receive the gift?” A gracious voice asked her as she approached, tilting the onyx cup in a veined, age-spotted hand.

“I have not.” Daenerys replied, speaking with an authority she no longer felt. “I need to speak with the leader of the Faceless Men.”

“Ah,” the hooded figure set down his offering, and slowly rose to his feet. “And just who are you, to demand such a thing?”

Though his voice was still tender, there was a cold edge to it now that sent an involuntary shiver down Dany’s spine. Her throat suddenly dry, Dany pulled out the beaten iron coin she’d clutched in her palm the entire way to the temple. Keeping her hand steady through sheer force of will, she held it out to the dichotomous stranger. “I am Daenerys Targaryen,” she proclaimed boldly, “the woman to whom your order is indebted to.”

There was a quiet shuffle, and the servant of the Many-Faced God closed the distance between them, looking down to examine the coin. “So it would seem,” he acquiesced, after a long moment. “This coin belongs to The Gentleman.”

“It does.” Dany confirmed. “And I’ve come to call in my marker.”

“And that is why you wish to speak with head of this temple.” He said, pulling his hood back to reveal the face of the kindest looking old man Daenerys had ever laid eyes upon. Amiable blue eyes that had seen more than she could ever imagine appraised her, and downy tufts of white hair fell across his weathered brow, veiling a thickly-ridged scar that edged along his hairline and curled down around his ear. “ _Valar dohaeris_ , dragon princess.”

“You are the leader of the Faceless Men…?” She asked incredulously, scarcely able to believe that such a gentle-looking soul could possibly manage the most deadly guild of assassins in the known world.

Friendly blue eyes hardened, reading her all too easily. “Never be fooled by appearances, Daenerys Targaryen,” he said coolly, “it is a weakness that leads many to their end.”

Dany felt a sharp stab of fear prick beneath her skin, and resisted the urge to shudder. With no more than a slight change of expression and inflection, this illusory man suddenly filled his role with a frightening veracity.

“That being said,” the nameless old man continued cordially, as if a monster didn’t lay just beneath the surface, “as you have pointed out, the Faceless Men are in your debt, and you wish to discuss your due with me. Name your price, and if it is within our power I shall see your service granted.”

“Just to be clear,” Dany willed herself to meet his penetrating eyes, “the code of your order dictates that I may request any act of service you are capable of fulfilling as repayment?”

The old man gave a stiff nod. “It has always been so, Valyrian.”

“Then my price is that you grant me The Gentleman herself,” Dany said brazenly, a living embodiment of the Targaryen fire that had once conquered a continent, “place her into my service for a term of three years, and I will consider the House of Black and White’s debt paid to me in full.”

“You would take a servant of the Many-Faced God from their sacred charge?” Was the low, dangerous response.

The withering look the ancient killer gave her would have turned a lesser woman to stone where she stood. But a lesser woman Dany could not be; too many were depending on her now, and she had promises to keep. “I would simply take what is _within your power to give me_ ,” she said, “before returning to the Many-Faced God what is rightfully his.”

Gradually the foreboding that pressed so heavily upon Daenerys relented, and cerulean eyes began to release their pervasive hold on her very spirit. She felt as if she’d been scraped from within when the old man finally turned and clapped his hands once. “Pretty Boy,” he called out, his voice full and rich with the strength of a much younger man.

A moment passed, and then another hooded form climbed up the top stair of a spiral staircase and stepped into the darkened foyer, familiar locks of red spilling from his cowl.

“How fares The Gentleman?” The old ghoul asked the acolyte.

“No change since the Wharf King left this morning.” Pretty Boy answered, his head bowed. “She’s still resting.”

There was a grunt, and a slight shake of a snow-white head. “Not anymore. Rouse her, and bring her up here. Use the revival salts and drag her if need be.” He turned to face Daenerys once again. “We have terms to discuss.”

 

**……………**

**AN: No, we are not glossing over The Gentleman’s questionable fate – those questions will be answered next chapter ;)**


	15. The Wolf and the Reaper

Adrenaline surged through No One’s veins, sobering her as she plunged into a frigid whirlpool. Debris followed her into the dark brine; chipped stone and mortar, fractured timber beams and twisted shards of steel, and she felt a telltale sting across her shoulder blades as a piece of wreckage cut past her during its descent.

Tasting salt as she winced, she kicked her legs and arced her arms, pulling herself away from the focal point of the collapse. A vortex started to form as what remained of the abandoned tower split upon itself, sinking into the undertow that constantly tugged at the stubborn remnants of Drowned Town.

Fighting against the heavy drag of the spiral, the ghoul thrashed, opening her eyes in the murk to look up through the silt and sediment to see the moon above, full and distant.

If she could only reach it.

Her lungs starting to burn, she railed against the draw into oblivion that gripped her.

_Not today_.

Raging against the call of the Many-Faced God she served, she propelled herself upward, defying the current that clutched at her with a will of its own. Brackish froth broke out around her as calamity collided with resolve, and more than see it, she _felt_ herself drawing closer to the surface, and her lunar ambition.

Determination that had led her through each of the seven hells drove her onward, even as her chest tightened and her muscles screamed. She never felt the rusted hook of gnarled banister catch on the loose fabric of her trouser leg, or saw the stone slab it was attached to plummeting into the bubbling, agitated depths.

She only saw the moonlight over water, and then she was gone.

 

**………**

 

Incisors as long as daggers cut through a warm pelt and tender flesh, stilling the fallen stag. Rich blood flooded her mouth as she tore into the still-hot meat, savoring her kill. She could hear the tentative approach of her little cousins starting to come up behind her, and a low, warning growl rattled within her throat – they were to wait. She would share, as she always did, but not until the alpha had her fill.

A massive paw the size of a man’s head pressed down on the kill, holding it steady as mammoth jaws tore muscle and tendon from bone, rending it completely with only two clamps of her chops. She swallowed, and then set to cracking open bone, her tongue sliding down the curved cradle of ivory to feast on the thick marrow that lay within.

She had just ripped open a delectable, fat-lined haunch when she caught the scent.

Stepping away from her steaming meal, her ears perked and she sniffed at the misty morning air. There it was again, faint, so very, very faint, but unmistakable just the same.

It was the smell of home.

She threw her head back and howled, a cry out to the littermates she’d long been separated from.

There was no response.

Sounding a permissive bark, she left her prey to her pack, signalling that she’d rejoin them later. The sky was still dark, but the great light would come soon – she would need to stick to the thick trappings of forest that lined the road. She sniffed the air once more, picking up the direction of the familiar smell, and started to lope across the frosted grass west of the Green Fork.

Only a few leagues into her sojourn, she began to pick up other aromas surrounding the source of her curiosity: oiled steel, leather tang, musty linen, unwashed skin, horse sweat, a few varieties of eats and spice, and the sour pungency of the drink that was kept in banded barrels. Still, despite the cacophony of fragrant distractions, she was able to pick out and follow her quarry all the way to the rocky knolls that surrounded the Vale.

Crouched behind a stony outcropping, the direwolf watched as a large procession of men in matching regalia passed down below her, marching along the wide, trenched road. She could hear the squeak of straining wheels beneath wagons, the thunk of worn bootsoles, and the scrape of cold steel.

She knew they were headed for war.

Calm as still water, golden eyes finally caught a glimpse of what they’d been searching for – in the middle of the caravan, on a strong black steed, was the flame-haired master of the dead one; the one who’d been small and gentle, and killed by a trusted hand before she was grown.

_Sansa_.

She heard as well as felt it then, a voice accompanying the comforting presence within her that made her want to leap and wag her tail. But as she tried to stand, she felt the presence resist, bearing her back down again.

_It’s not safe, Nym – there’s too many of them._

Nymeria huffed, vexed by the interference yet somehow understanding the man-words she could hear echoing inside of herself.

_But you see girl? Sansa’s alive..._

The wolf can sense a feeling, something that makes her long for her own kin. The force pressing her down suddenly eased, and, quiet as a shadow, the alpha started to follow the lost one’s master, trailing her path from high on the ridge above.

_They’re heading north – to Winterfell?_

Nymeria had no time to wonder at the status of her former home before her hackles rose, and she was snarling through still-bloodied teeth.

Her companion had recognized the rider beside the red-headed one.

_Lord Baelish._

They were one in their instinct, and the great She-Wolf leapt from her vantage point to a ledge below, and then down to the ground. The soldiers of Arryn had no time to react as the beast rushed through them, knocking them out of formation and into each other while they clumsily attempted to pull blades stuck with hoarfrost from their scabbards.

_Get the hell away from my sister, you traitorous whoreson!_

Nymeria launched herself over the few warriors who remained on their feet, knocking the small man who angered her shared soul from his horse. Gripping the collar of his cloak between her teeth, she pulled him off the road and shook her head violently, growling and twisting him into surrender beneath her.

“Nymeria!” the flame-haired maiden called out, pleadingly. “Stop, please! Let him go!”

_She doesn’t understand._

The monstrous wolf rested a heavy paw on her prey’s chest, fixing her jaw around his neck as he flailed and twitched beneath her, feeble as a hare.

_I’ll never let you hurt anyone again._

And then there were thin arms wrapped around her, and deep blue eyes looking into her own. “Please Nymeria, please, he saved me; he’s helping me take Winterfell back from the Boltons,” she begged, and the presence within paused, confused and aching. “Please Nymeria,” the girl who smelled like home and roses continued, running a slender hand through her coarse fur, “let him go, and help us.”

_Oh Sansa, don’t you know all that he’s done?_

Something crossed the red beauty’s face then, and she looked intently into the eyes of the savage beast she was trying so desperately to tame. “Arya…?” she whispered, questioning. “Are you… there?”

The direwolf dropped the weak little man, shaking off the warm embrace.

“Arya, please, if you’re there, stop.” Cerulean eyes glistened. “Everyone thinks you’re **dead** -”

**_Dead._ **

The wild wolf turned and ran, fast as the wind would carry her, back to her waiting pack.

And her beloved companion, who had briefly been one with her again after so long, was gone.

 

**……….**

 

She awoke shivering on the straw-softened slab in her sleeping cell, a pair of blindfolded eyes looking sightlessly down at her.

“Welcome back.” The Wharf King said.

“Where did I go?” No One asked through chattering teeth, disoriented.

“That’s what I was hoping you could tell me.” The graying man said, helping her to sit up and placing a hot mug into her hands. “What is the last thing you remember?”

_The smell of home and roses. Blue eyes. Sansa._

No One murmured quiet thanks, and drank from the cup with trembling hands. The spicy liquid scorched her throat, pitching her forward in a savage fit of coughing that rattled her to the bone. By the time she finally caught her breath, she felt her nose and lungs had cleared entirely. “I went to see you,” she said, her voice as rasped and scarred as her face, “over in Drowned Town.”

“You did.” Her mentor nodded, patient.

No One took another slow drink, the volatile brew going down a little smoother this time. She felt so cold her skin seemed to burn with it. She closed her eyes and sighed. “To the seven hells with your damned house.”

A veiled brow raised in mirth. “That is the destination, I think, if it hasn’t reached those horrific pits already.” He paused, then added: “And it was determined to take you down along with it.”

She could remember the current, the strain and the struggle, and then…

Then there was just Nymeria.

“How did I make it back to shore?” she asked, trying to fill in the missing pieces.

The Wharf King just shook his head. “You didn’t, young Gentleman. Two of my wharf rats had seen the tower collapse, and swam out in hopes of finding some valuables before the tide carried everything away. They found your belt and blade looped around a piece of driftwood, and you floating face down beside it.”

_But that’s impossible_. “Just… what are you trying to say?” the ghoul asked somberly.

The Wharf King carried on, as if he hadn’t heard her question at all. “Once they pulled you to the docks, Rasco ran to fetch me. He recognized you right away, see. Apparently took a shine to you for some reason. The other rat, Brandt, he waited with you until I arrived but…” the broad assassin pulled a wineskin from his belt and took a deep drink before continuing, “you were already long gone.”

“How could I have been ‘long gone’? I’m right here.” The Gentleman exhaled slowly. “You know, maybe you need those eyes more than you think.”

The older ghoul’s expression never changed. “I may not be able to see the way the wind blows through a woman’s hair anymore, but I _know_ death. I know its stillness, its silence, its scent, and the way it ices the skin.” He turned to face her, as if he were still a man of sight. “You were taken by the Many-Faced God.”

No One opened her mouth to counter his claim, but when she tried to speak, she could only shake, and no words came out.

“I carried you here,” he said softly, “to speak a few words, and prepare you for interment. Rasco came with me, bearing your sword. We made it all the way to the steps of the temple before you suddenly started snarling and coughing up water, stinking like wet dog.” He took another swig from his skin. “Not much left in this world that can put a fright in me, ghoul… but that, well, I damn near dropped you, along with everything in my bowels.”

The Gentleman licked her lips, her mouth suddenly dry. “I don’t… remember any of that…”

“You wouldn’t. You started breathing again, but were still out cold. I brought you down here and stitched up your shoulders, then wrapped you up and made some of that firebroth.” He motioned toward her cup. “All the while trying to figure out what could have possibly happened. And then I remembered.”

“Remembered what?” No One asked, her head starting to throb.

“Who you were, before you became the Gentleman.”

_‘Arya, please, if you’re there, stop._ ’ No One drained the rest of her cup, relishing in the painful distraction as she tried to quiet the echo.

“You were from Westeros. The North.” The Wharf King said, matter-of-factly. “You were a Stark.”

“Not anymore,” the ghoul gnashed through her teeth, resting her head in her hands as the steady throb grew into a pulsating pound, “never again.”

“We can take that from you.” The blind ghoul said, his voice dropping to a cautious hush. “We can take your name, your attachments, your loves, your hates, your hopes, your dreams, even your mind, in some cases. But one thing this order can _never_ take, short of sending you to the Many-Faced God that we serve, is the blood that runs through your veins. And _your_ blood, Gentleman, still runs with the old magic of your forefathers.”

She tried to lose herself in the pain, to drown out the Wharf King’s voice and the forget the summer eyes of her pleading sister, half a world away.

“You’re a warg. And before your body perished, you ran to another. And that is how you were able to return, without a priestess of R’hllor’s kiss.”

She tried to snap a caustic retort about fools and fables and old women called Nan, but the agony she’d been clinging to began to overtake her, and instead she turned from him, curling up on her side.

“Do you know how you did it?” he asked, “how to control that power?”

“No.” She managed through grit teeth.

A strong, weathered hand gripped her shoulder, shaking it. “Listen to me girl, and listen well. Never, ever speak of this to anyone else. Do you hear me?”

The Gentleman nodded, jaw clenched as a shudder wracked her thin frame.

The grasp on her shoulder tightened. “I mean it. You don’t know what they’d do, if they knew you had this gift.”

“Not… a… word.” She seethed in promise.

“Good.” The hand on her shoulder relaxed, “rest now. We’ll talk more another time.”

And she did.

 

**……….**

 

It was another hand on her shoulder that roused her again, hours later.

“Gentleman, wake up,” Pretty Boy said, wide-eyed in the dark of the catacombs, “please, get up.”

“I’m awake,” she muttered, her tongue thick in her mouth.

“You need to come up to the fountain,” the acolyte blurted nervously, “the Old Man has summoned you. Dany is here, and it seems she’s going to call in her marker, and.. well, you just need to go upstairs.”

_Seven hells_. _Now? She chose **now** of all times to call in my debt? _ Forcing her stiff limbs into motion, No One sat up on the edge of the bed, sluggishly orienting herself to the waking world.

“Gods, you look awful.” Pretty Boy declared unabashedly.

“Have a tower collapse on you, and see how lovely _you_ look afterward.” She sniped, raking a hand through her hair before pulling on a pair of old boots, her finer set lost to the depths of Drowned Town.

“You’re right; I’m sorry… I suppose all things considered, you actually look pretty good.” He smiled weakly.

She ignored his clumsy attempt at a turnabout and stood up, reaching for her belt and sword. Her legs felt tremulous beneath her, but with any luck a few solid steps would quicken her blood and right them again. She fastened the leather around her waist, and shifted the scabbard to her hip. She looked over her shoulder at the fair acolyte. “Any idea what she may have asked for?”

“No,” Pretty Boy said with a shake of his head, “only that… well… the Old Man didn’t look too happy.”

_Not much different from usual_. “Fair enough.” She rubbed her eyes one last time, and slowly made her way to the stone stairs leading up to the antechamber, Pretty Boy following closely behind.

“ _Valar morghulis_ ,” the Old Man’s greeting sounded across the room once she crossed the threshold of her ascent.

“ _Valar dohaeris_ ,” she returned roughly, words still grating against her throat as she respectfully bowed her head.

“I see you are recovering from last night’s… _misfortune_.” The ancient killer said, with a smile that bordered on predatory as he motioned for her to approach. “Come, join us. I presume you already know why this young woman is here.”

No One stepped forward, looking at Dany over the old man’s shoulder. The resolve the exiled princess wore on her face faltered for a moment, briefly replaced by concern, and the ghoul knew that Pretty Boy had spoken true – she looked just as awful as she felt.

“I do,” she said once she’d reached the two, focusing on Daenerys. “ _Valar dohaeris_ , my lady. How may I repay what is owed?”

“You can go back downstairs and pack your belongings once we are finished here.” The aged leader of the ghouls broke in. “The Targaryen has claimed _you_ as her payment.”

The Gentleman wondered if she could have possibly heard right, or if she was still addled.

“As the Valyrian has so cleverly pointed out to me,” the old man said in a low tone that bordered on threatening, “granting you into her service _is_ an act that is within my power to fulfill.”

No One swallowed, looking back and forth between Dany and the Not-So-Kindly Old Man, unable to believe what she was hearing. “But.. I serve the Many-Faced God. I’m pledged to the Faceless Men – you can’t just _give me away_!” she exclaimed.

“You misunderstand.” The Old Man’s eyes narrowed, holding her own. “I am merely placing you on loan, for a term of three years to this day. To honor _your_ debt.” He turned to face Dany, eyes as cold as the grave. “And not one day longer. Is that understood?”

“It is.” Dany said, every inch as bold and regal as the tales No One had heard of her hot-blooded ancestors, back when she was young, and still someone.

“As well, I will need her to maintain contact with the Wharf King during your travels. If you intend to sail as far as you claim, she will be of great use to him. He may require her services in the Free Cities from time to time – and if he does, you will not interfere. Will you agree to these terms, Daenerys Targaryen?”

_Sail away? Serve in the Free Cities?_ A dark brow furrowed over uneasy grey eyes as they watched the two barter her as if she were no more than a bolt of cloth at the harbor market.

Violet eyes briefly caught her own, then returned to the blue death that demanded her answer.

“Yes. I agree to these terms.”

“So be it, then.” A worn, spotted hand reached out, and smooth, slender fingers dropped a coin into the beaten palm.

And with that, the Gentleman was traded away.

 

**……….**

**AN: And yes, there was a tiny hint of Sansaery there – though blink and you may have missed it. Happy new year, Stargaryens. =)**


	16. The Spider and the Large Shadow

A clever spider never wove only a single web.

The silken threads that held Daenerys Targaryen at their center had torn in headstrong winds, leaving nothing but frayed strands of what might have been. Although it _was_ disappointing, it was of no real consequence; not in the grand scheme of things. She was always meant to be a long-term benefit, a way to secure legitimization and approval once Aegon’s forces landed in Westeros. Having Daenerys by his side would have persuaded the Seven Kingdoms that he truly was Rhaegar’s son, and rallied them behind him and their children once he took the throne – but the marriage would not have helped him against the tens of thousands that still stood between him and that vicious chair. Daenerys had the right name and bloodline, but nothing more to offer. She was an exile with no lands, wealth, soldiers or ships to contribute to Aegon’s cause.

The lovely young woman Varys currently had entangled came from a family who had _all_ of those things.

Telara Maegyr, daughter of Malaquo Maegyr, the Tiger Triarch of Volantis, came with a dowry that included forty Volantene warships, five thousand fully armed foot soldiers, and enough honors to keep them all well-supplied throughout Aegon’s campaign. Arrangements had been made, and they were set to wed once Aegon’s ship docked at the proud, ancient city during the next turn of the moon. It was quite an advantageous match, one that would not only bolster the strength of the would-be-king’s army, but also unite the Iron Throne with the old blood of Essos – along with all of the resources that were bound to that prestige.

And those resources would be needed.

Adding to the already numerous stresses that threatened to fracture the realm each and every day, the Iron Bank had called in its debt. Lannister gold had made the first payment, and Tyrell bounty would undoubtedly make the second, but without Tommen as King coupled with Margaery by his side, Aegon himself would need to remit the third. The Iron Throne was insolvent, and it would be years before the Seven Kingdoms recovered from the economic devastation Robert Baratheon’s rule and the subsequent War of Five Kings wrought. Had Aegon wed Daenerys, this was a price he and Illyrio were resigned to paying themselves – but, as it stood, their money was better spent elsewhere.

Little birds from the Vale sang to him, a song of bastard maid who lived in the highest tower of the Eyrie and transformed overnight, as if by old magic. Hair, once dark as raven’s feathers, became tresses of spun fire. A humble dress of well-stitched cotton became an ornate sapphire gown trimmed in velvet, the hue matching newly emboldened eyes that had previously roamed with a downward cast. And finally, perhaps the greatest conjuring of them all, with but a single word from a former Master of Coin, a Stone became the last surviving Stark, risen from the empty grave Westeros believed she lay in.

They rode north, the Lady Sansa and her presumed keeper, Lord Baelish, along with a force some twenty thousand strong. Reachmen and Valemen alike marched, no doubt set to restore the ancestral seat of Winterfell for a northern alliance lynchpin.

That Littlefinger was plotting with the Tyrells didn’t surprise him. That the two had managed to keep Sansa Stark so well hidden for so long, did.

To counter his lack of foresight, gold that was formerly going to be set aside for the Iron Bank was instead spent on an acquisition that would even the odds for Aegon when the North inevitably joined the fray – the purchase of eight thousand Unsullied warriors from Astapor.

For the sake of a son he could never claim as his own, Illyrio had made the arduous journey to Astapor himself, unwilling to entrust the transaction to even the most faithful of servants. Once payment for the eunuchs was rendered, he booked passage for all of them to Volantis, where they would be hosted by Malaquo Maegyr while awaiting Aegon’s arrival.

Varys looked at the date of their last correspondence, then unfurled a map. If the winds were fair, Illyrio would reach the free city in less than a week.

And if there were gods, and if those gods were _good_ , they’d be greeted on the Orange Shore by an old friend who had the power to turn the languishing western tide in Aegon’s favor.

It had been the better part of three years since he’d packed Tyrion Lannister into a crate and shipped him across the Narrow Sea to Illyrio’s manse. Drunk and despondent, the diminutive Lannister had wiled away months in a stupor of despair, costing the magister a small fortune in pleasures that never seemed to actually _please him_ in any way. The cunning lion was adrift, aimless, and in time even Varys himself had started to wonder if he’d made a terrible mistake in helping him. After all, for some, there came a point where death could be considered a kindness.

That all changed, though, once he’d brought word of Cersei and Jaime’s death to Pentos.

Mismatched eyes, empty and bloodshot, looked up at him as he spoke of their execution by the Faith Militant, kindling for the first time since he’d been smuggled away. He set down his goblet of wine, and sat beneath the sun in Illyrio’s gardens, the ghost of a smile on his face.

The halfman spent the next few days sequestered in his chamber, coming out only for the occasional meal. He took no wine and received no women, allowing no indulgence to steer the course of his newly-cleared mind. And when he finally came back out into the light of the world, it was sober, with a small bag slung over his modest shoulder.

“I want to thank you both,” he’d said, looking up at Illyrio and then Varys in turn. “I’ve been most graciously hosted, while in a state most entirely ungracious. I need not remind either of you that a Lannister always pays his debts; I will not forget this one.”

“Where will you go, Lord Tyrion?” The Spider asked.

The dwarf cocked a brow. “You once told me about a conversation you once had with Oberyn Martell, Lord Varys, where he said something to the effect of: ‘it is a big and beautiful world. Most of us live and die in the same corner where we were born, and never get to see any of it.’ Like our friend the late Viper, I don’t want to be ‘most of us’.”

“You were never in danger of that, my Lord. But I understand the sentiment completely.”

Tyrion looked out at the horizon. “Essos is quite large. It’s not unreasonable to think a small man may find a place to fit somewhere in it.”

And with that he was gone, head back and shoulders squared, as if free of a burden he’d been carrying so long he’d never even known it was there.

Tyrion kept in touch throughout his travels. Every so often one of Varys’ little birds would bring him a tightly wound scroll, stamped with red wax and no seal. The unsteady script betrayed the dwarf’s swift return to his liquid comforts, but the contents spoke of a man determined to solve the riddle of himself by understanding the rest of the world around him.

That riddle, it seemed, led to Volantis, where Tyrion found a place with Nyessos Vhassar, the Illyrio Mopatis-owned triarch of the Elephant party. Though he’d never said so himself in any of his missives, to hear it told, Tyrion became heavily involved in the triarch’s campaign, and was instrumental in his re-election.

It was hearsay Varys wholly believed in.

Tyrion had always loved the game, and the chaos of a triarch election was as close to King’s Landing insanity as could be found in Essos. Even when it had left him sleepless and stopped up his bowels, Tyrion was never more alive than when he was orchestrating and manipulating events like so many pieces on a cyvasse board.

It was that love that Varys hoped would bring Tyrion back home to Westeros on board one of Aegon’s ships.

And if _that_ love wasn’t enough, there was also his own blood to consider.

Young Tommen’s days as King were numbered, but that did not necessarily require an end to the boy himself.

If Tyrion returned to Westeros with Aegon, he would have Tommen deposed as an incestuous bastard by the Faith Militant, sent to live out his days as a public figure of penitence. It would be a far less glamorous life, to be certain – but undoubtedly preferable to the alternative. Once Aegon took the Iron Throne, he would grant Tyrion a full pardon for all crimes, and reassert him as Lord of Casterly Rock and Warden of the West. In exchange for this generosity, Lord Tyrion would swear fealty to Aegon and gift him a portion of all viable Lannister soldiers for his own royal army, as well as proclaim the ‘truth’ of his Targaryen heritage, by confessing that Lord Tywin himself had doubts about the babe Gregor Clegane had killed. It would not be enough to convince Westeros on its own, but it would sow seeds of uncertainty that Varys would ensure were well-watered, until stalks of questioning grew into a beautiful blooms of acceptance.

Hopefully, in time, the combined effort would be enough to make up for the political loss of Daenerys’ rejection.

The candle on his desk flickered and hissed as it burnt down to the end of the wick, and Varys glanced outside his chamber window. The early morning sky was mottling, with more tender hues of blue starting to overcome the remnants of evening black. His service to the realm afforded little time to rest, but soon, every sacrifice both he and Illyrio made would grant them both peace and vindication.

Following the wedding of Aegon and Telara in Volantis, forty Volantene warships loaded with eight thousand Unsullied warriors, five thousand of Malaquo Maegyr’s soldiers, and the full might of the Golden Company would sail west along the coast of Essos, and right into Shipbreaker Bay. Once disembarked they’d seize Griffon’s Roost, Rain House, Crow’s Nest, and Greenstone in a simultaneous assault. With those strongholds under control, they’d set out against Storm’s End, inevitably bringing the Great House of the Stormlands under Aegon’s dominion.

And clearing him a path toward King’s Landing.

Keen ears famous for picking up the faintest of whispers heard the soft patter of bare feet on stone, and Varys stood up to meet the morning sparrow that intercepted all of the raven correspondence that arrived in the rookery each evening on his behalf. The lanky boy waited as small scrolls were opened and scanned with sharp eyes; a deft hand quilling short notations whenever there was something of merit contained within the message.

Varys sighed as he unfurled the last note, recognizing the now-familiar hand of the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch. Another day, another desperate plea for men and resources to fight against the mythical terrors beyond the Wall. A quick read confirmed his suspicions, and he gently rolled the request back up along with the rest of them, returning them to his little bird, who would set them each back exactly as they’d been found.

The Wall, and the Night’s Watch with it, had survived for over eight thousands years. Surely it could manage a few more.

Right now there were more pressing wars to fight.

 

**………….**

 

_I see a land unknown to me, far from Valyrian heat. There is a frozen river that cuts through the heart of the icy earth; silver in the sunlight._

_  
Wind passes over me, pushing rising snow into drifts, and snapping brittle branches from dying trees. _

_As I see, I am watched._

_The sky darkens, and it is a night thick with living shadow. I do not feel the cold, and yet I shiver._

_I open my mouth to speak, and find it numbed. There is nothing left, no, not a thing in this wasteland, but for two blue orbs that slowly rise before me._

_They are the eyes that have watched me, and my heart is gripped with dread…_  
  
Soft lips brush over his ear as a slender hand pours him another goblet of wine. “I see you’ve left me for yet another book, Lord Tyrion.”

“Never.” The dwarf gently lifted a delicate hand and pressed a kiss to each fingertip. “I was just on my way to bed, and happened to take a small detour.”

Danika smiled, tousling her free hand through his hair. “You’re a very good liar, little man, but not good enough. Who is it that is keeping you up tonight?”

Tyrion shifted in his chair, and carefully lifted the leatherbound volume, a relic worth more than his own weight in gold. “ ‘Signs and Portents’,” he said, “a collective of the visions of Daenys Targaryen. And quite possibly the only transcribed copy in existence.”

Danika’s dark brow raised. “Daenys Targaryen, hmm? She is the one who started that war long ago? The one with the dragons?”

“No,” Tyrion corrected lightly, “that was her descendant, Rhaenrya Targaryen. She fought her half-brother Aegon II Targaryen for the Iron Throne in the Dance of Dragons.” He took a drink from his newly-filled cup before continuing. “Daenys was known as the dreamer; the maid who saw the Doom of Valyria a full twelve years before it came to pass. Or so the story goes.”

“The Doom of Valyria,” Danika said playfully, “so, that would make Daenys over four hundred years old?”

“It would.”

“Suit yourself, then.” She bent down to kiss his forehead. “I am going to sleep, while you carry on your love affair with your ancient Targaryen mistress.”

Tyrion watched as the scantily-clad pleasure slave sashayed her way down the hall, and up the spiral stairs that led to Nyessos Vhassar’s guest chambers. An exotic beauty purchased from a pleasure trader, Danika had been gifted to him by the triarch after he won his re-election. Although Tyrion was not at all comfortable with the concept of people being exchanged in the same manner as market staples, he could not afford to insult his host, either. So he quietly compromised, having Danika take up residence in one of the chambers Nyessos had granted him, free to do as she liked.

It just so happened that some nights, what she liked was him.

But this night, Danika would have to wait. There were opportunities that only came but once in a lifetime, and reading words believed lost to the world for hundreds of years was one of them.

Tonight, he belonged to Daenys.


	17. The Exile and the Stray

Dany’s head was held high, even as her heart pounded in her throat, and a slight tremble ran through her hands. The great weirwood and ebony doors opened, and she stepped back into the light of Braavos, fierce and proud as any of her ancestors had ever been.

She’d never let them see just how afraid she was.

Two steps behind her and silent as the stone gods she served under was Grey, a small satchel containing everything she owned slung over her shoulder, and looking every inch like death itself warmed over. Her skin was pale, and there were dark rings around the striking eyes she’d been named for. An angry cut marked her left brow, the red of it stark against her ghastly pallor.

_Gods.. what happened to you?_

“Are you alright?” Dany asked gently, when she finally found the voice she’d nearly spent completely while making demands from terror itself.

“I’ll be fine.” Grey said, cool and unreadable.

Gone was the warmth Dany had always felt beneath the assassin’s trained veneer, replaced by something... dangerous. Empty.

No One.

“Please come home with me, Grey,” Dany said carefully, searching for any trace of the gruff tenderness she’d come to find so endearing, “we’ll talk. I can explain everything-”

“-no need,” Grey said, cutting her off. “ _Valar dohaeris_. We do as you will, _Chainbreaker_.”

The killer’s tongue was a sharp edge of accusation when she spoke that last word, and it cut Dany as efficiently as any blade she carried.

Because it was true.

She had bartered years of Grey’s life in exchange for a coin, no different than a slave master making a purchase from the auction block. That she only needed Grey’s help, and for the sake of others far more than herself, didn’t matter - what seemed like the only solution in a moment of desperation had driven her to become exactly what she fought against.

Dany’s stomach churned, and for a moment she felt as if she would be sick.

“Dany?” Grey’s voice was quieter now, and Daenerys was grateful for the softening. “Did you want to go somewhere else?” Slate eyes glanced down at two ghouls starting to make their way up the steps to the temple, one scarred viciously down the center of his face, the other marred diagonally from brow to chin. “We shouldn’t stay here.”

Dany looked up at the great black and white doors behind them one last time before turning to face Grey. “No, we really shouldn’t.” She remembered the fifteen slaves waiting in Tyrosh, one step closer to gruesome death with each moment that she hesitated, and pulled together what resolve she had left. “I’m taking you home.”

 

**……….**

 

Silence was an unwelcome chaperone all the way back to Purple Harbor.

More than once Dany tried to break it, wanting to explain, wanting to apologize – but none of the truths circling within her mind made any sense outside of it.

_‘Someone with your gifts can save so many lives.’_

_‘You don’t realize the power you hold in this city; the way the waters part for you , just by virtue of the scar you bear. I **need** someone with that power now.’ _

_‘Everything is about to change. I know what I need to do, but I can’t do it alone – I don’t know how; I don’t have the connections you do. I’m afraid that I’ll fail without your help, and I can’t live with the consequences of that.’_

_‘I need you to teach me how not to be afraid of **him** anymore.’ _

_‘I can’t trust anyone else.’_

The words all fumbled every time she tried to speak, and instead she ended up just biting her bottom lip, not wanting to sound a fool.

When they reached the house with the red door, Luco was outside, mortaring a few stones that had loosened on the walkway. Setting down his trowel he rose to his feet, giving Dany a deferential bow.

“How many times do I need to tell you there’s no need for that?” Dany reminded the young man kindly.

“I’m sorry my lady – it seems I’m a creature of habit.” He replied sheepishly. “ ‘Specially when it feels wrong to do otherwise.” He tilted his head to look at Grey, his eyes widening when he took in her marking. “Dany, do you know-”

“Is Viserys’ room still in order?” Dany gracefully interrupted.

“Of course, yes,” Luco nodded, “no one’s been in there since it was cleared out once he, well,” incredulous brown eyes looked from Dany, to Grey, then settled on Dany once again, “ _left_.”

Dany smiled. “Thank you.” She continued down the walk, Grey following close behind, as the young servant gawked.

Dany reached out to open the door, pausing as she grasped the handle. “I don’t know who’s home right now. But if anyone in my household stares, I apologize in advance. No one knew I’d be bringing you home. And, well…”

“It’s alright,” Grey said evenly. “I understand.”

Dany gave a small nod and pushed open the door, running smack into Ser Willem.

“Oh!” The old knight chuckled as he stepped back. “There you are. You’re back just in time; Lylah’s about to put on supper.” His eyes sharpened as he appraised Dany’s guest. “And you’ve brought a… friend, I see.”

“I have,” Dany said, quickly collecting herself and employing the highborn decorum she’d been tutored in, but so rarely had to use. “Ser Willem, this is my friend Grey. Grey, this is Ser Willem Darry, my guardian – but as much a father to me as anything else.”

“A pleasure to meet you, Ser Willem.” Grey said, her voice rich with charm as she reached out her hand. “Dany speaks of you often, and in high regard.” The lie flowed as smooth and sweet as honey from her lips, and even though Dany _knew_ better, she still found herself second-guessing their every conversation, trying to recall any mention she’d made of Ser Willem aside from his name.

She could think of none, and it was suddenly very clear to her just how even well-informed, wealthy women from good families could sometimes end up with scar-bastards.

Ser Willem’s eyes narrowed slightly as he sized up the assassin. “I wish I could say the same. Yet she hasn’t mentioned you to me even once before now, _Grey_. ”

Before Dany could speak a word, Ser Willem had pulled her aside and drawn his sword, holding the point to Grey’s neck. “Who sent you, you murdering whoreson?” He grit out between clenched teeth. “Was it the young Lannister king?”

Grey slowly pulled back her offered hand and glanced down at the blade, then back up to Ser Willem. “It’s not in your best interest to do that, _Ser_.”

“Ser Willem, please, stop!” Dany cried out, reaching for his arm. “This isn’t what you think!”

“Stay back, Dany. This is _exactly_ what I think!” The old knight flicked his blade up expertly, re-opening the wound on Grey’s brow before pressing the tip of his blade back against her neck. “Or was it Dorne this time?” he growled at the ghoul, flushing with rage. “Prince Doran fretting over his daughter’s place in history?”

“Neither.” Steel eyes hardened, and Grey’s voice lowered. “And once again I caution you, Ser Willem – it’s not in your best interest to do that.”

The former Master-at-Arms carried on, heedless of Grey’s warning or Dany’s continued pulling against his arm. “One way or another, you _will_ tell me who hired you, ghoul. So help me-”

“Ser Willem, is everything alright?” Lylah called out, rounding the corner from the kitchen.

The handmaiden’s voice caused no more than a split-second distraction, but it was enough. Grey sidestepped, lunged forward, and grabbed Ser Willem’s wrist, pressing into it with her thumb and forefinger. His hand sprung open, and his sword clattered to the floor as Grey pressed the tip of a dagger to his eye. “I warned you twice, old man.” She said with a deadly calm.

“Grey stop! Let him go!” Dany demanded, pushing herself between the two.

Grey considered her a moment, then slid the dagger back up her sleeve. “ _Valar dohaeris_.” She took a step back from the weathered guardian, just in time for Lylah’s wooden spoon to crack the backside of her head.

“Lylah, what are you doing?!” Dany cried after catching her arm a moment too late.

“What do you think I’m doing?” The former Volantene exclaimed. “Trying to save you and Ser Willem from this murderer!”

Grey winced, stumbling back against the door before righting herself again.

The Darry knight wasted no time and knelt to retrieve his blade.

And in the midst of it all, the dragon roared.

“Just stop! All of you, now!”

Angry violet embers burned through each one of them in turn, pinning them in place. “Ser Willem, sheathe your sword. Grey, your blades stay right where they are. And Lylah.. just.. drop what’s left of that damned spoon!”

Three sets of wary eyes regarded each other, as the trio reluctantly obeyed.

“Ser Willem,” Dany spoke with forced patience, knowing he’d only sought to protect her. “Grey is here as my guest. She was not contracted to harm me.”

“Dany, you don’t know that-”

“I know this,” she immediately corrected him, “because she is here in _my_ service.”

A thick brow creased in anger gave way to confusion, as the Targaryen loyalist openly gaped.

“And Lylah,” Daenerys turned to her handmaiden and best friend, “ _you_ should have known better, regardless of what it may have _looked like_.”

The guilty look that she gave the floor in response said that she did.

“Grey,” Dany said, her tone softening, “Ser Willem and Lylah, and even Luco out there,” she tilted her head towards the door, “they are my family. Protect them as you would me, and _never_ draw steel against any of them. Swear to me.”

Guarded ashen eyes met her own. “ _Valar dohaeris_. They will come to no harm by my hand.”

“Good. Then that will be the end of it.” She said pointedly to the knight and the handmaid over her shoulder before motioning for Grey to follow her. “Come with me.”

 

**……….**

 

Dany hadn’t stepped foot into Viserys’ room since before he left, and was pleasantly surprised to see the truth of Luco’s words for herself. Anything once belonging to the young king had been removed, leaving only a comfortable guest chamber in his wake.

It was as if he’d never existed in the Darry household.

“I’m sorry,” Dany said, once she’d stepped into the room with Grey, and out of earshot. “Are you alright?” She asked for the second time in the space of an hour.

“I’ll be fine.” Grey said, reserved as the first time she’d given the answer.

“They’re good people,” Dany sighed, “truly. They just…”

“Had absolutely no idea what you set out to do this afternoon?” Grey supplied.

Dany just nodded in agreement.

“And just what is it that you _were_ doing, Dany?” Grey asked. “Three years… what could have possibly possessed you, a Chainbreaker, to even think of asking such a thing?”

_More than you could ever imagine._

Dany exhaled slowly. “I… there’s a lot I need to explain. And I will. But please.. for now, unpack and settle in. I need to check on Ser Willem, and make sure Lylah doesn’t have designs on any more kitchen utensils.”

 

**………..**

 

The sun was setting as Dany watched tendrils of steam rise from two cups, and added some spiced tea leaves to each. Ser Willem remained surly, unsatisfied with the evasive explanations she’d supplied him with, but was unwilling to press against her will. Lylah had held her tongue for the time being, which was no sign of reprieve, but only meant she had plans to unfurl it later on, with vigor, once Dany was ready to retire for the evening.

They both wanted answers, but Grey was the one she owed them to above all others.

She waited until the tea had fully steeped, then set down the hall to the newly-occupied guest chamber. The door was still half-open, just as she’d left it, but she paused behind it anyways. “Grey?”

No response.

She waited a moment, and called out once more. “Grey, can we talk?”

Again, silence.

_Did she leave?_

Concerned, Dany pushed open the door and walked into the room, only to find Grey’s sword and satchel leaning against the wall, and the assassin herself fast asleep on top of the coverlet, on the far edge of the bed.

Daenerys set down the two cups, and made her way around the oversized bed, cautiously resting her hand on the ghoul’s shoulder and shaking it lightly. “Grey?”

A deep, even breath was her only reply.

“You were never fine at all, were you?” Dany whispered, once again reminded of just how naïve she really was when it came to Grey’s skill in deception.

She watched the killer for a few moments, violet eyes tracing over lines that had been roughly etched and animated in her memory. Without the predatory awareness that defined her wakened state, Dany was struck by how young Grey actually was – she emanated such confidence it was only natural to link it to years of experience, but now, unguarded under the abating sun, it became clear that had never been the case.

For her to have come as far as she had in service of the Many-Faced God, Dany guessed that she must have been little more than a child when she joined the Faceless Men.

What could possibly drive a child to seek purpose in death?

“Just who were you?” she asked, brushing an errant lock of dark hair from Grey’s unscarred cheek.

With a pocket full of answers she would have to wait to give, Dany gently slid off Grey’s boots and set them down on the floor at the foot of the bed, and then pulled the blanket across her.

It was not enough to make amends, but a good night’s rest was the least she could grant her.

 

**…………**

“I had an iron coin of _valar dohaeris_.” Dany said, staring at the rim of her cup, refusing to meet her handmaiden’s eyes.

“You had a… how?” Lylah asked. “Why didn’t you ever tell me?”

“Ever since Grey walked me home that first night,” Dany answered, “she gave me a gold dragon and the iron coin, and told me it was a debt repaid, with interest. And I never told you about it because I hadn’t decided exactly what I was going to do with it.”

“And now you _do_ know?” Lylah asked carefully.

“I do.” Dany looked up slowly, her eyes finally leaving their porcelain haven. “Did you speak with Dagen?”

Lylah nodded. “I did. Told him to get word to our Tyroshi contact to move the slaves; that’d we’d come for them on another ship, just as you asked.” She paused a moment, hesitant. “Dany, if you’re going to use the coin to get us to Tyrosh and back, why is Grey here now?”

“I’m not going to use the coin to sail us to Tyrosh. Grey is here because I traded the coin for _her_.”

Lylah paled, her eyes widening in disbelief. “Dany… you traded the coin for a _person_?”

“I traded the coin for three years of her _service_.” Dany corrected her, knowing that as much as it may be a flimsy distinction, there was _still_ a difference.

“Oh gods…” Lylah rested her head in her hands, “what were you possibly thinking, Daenerys?”

_Daenerys_. Lylah hadn’t used her full name since she was a _child_ , caught with a bag of sweetmints she’d pilfered from a high shelf, after a careful exercise in stacking and a bit of good luck in weight displacement.

Anger flared unbidden through Dany’s veins, and had she carried the madness of her brother, it would have woken her own dragon. “ _I’m thinking_ ,” she said heatedly, “that I need to buy a ship, and sail us to Tyrosh within a week or those fifteen people will likely die. _I’m thinking_ that to save those people, we need someone who can blend in with the Tyroshi without attracting any unwanted attention, and, if they do, can fight their way back to us. _I’m thinking_ that once we’ve brought those people back to Braavos, there are still countless more being bought, sold, and tattooed – and I am no longer content with trying to fit small handfuls of them into corners of cargo holds, praying that no one else on board is a bounty hunter sent to kill our shepherds, or retrieve the lives they view as nothing more than property!”

Lylah’s hands slowly fell from her face as she turned to listen.

“ _I’m thinking_ ,” Dany continued, “that… I can’t stay here anymore. If I do, it’s only a matter of time before I’m killed, along with sentencing you, Ser Willem, Luco, and anyone else I come to care for to the same fate, all for the sake of securing that cursed chair. And I just can’t, Lylah…” her voice began to trail off, and she shook her head, “..I just can’t.”

“Dany,” Lylah reached out, and rested a warm hand on her charge’s shoulder.

Dany tensed under her grip, unwilling to appear as the child they all still thought her to be, in need of comfort. “ _I’m thinking_ that the child I carry is the true heir to the Iron Throne, and that if Viserys becomes king, there will be none who will dare stand against him when he sends for me, wherever I may end up. Except, perhaps, someone who is beyond the sway of gold and holds no allegiance to any king or lord, but only the god they serve. Someone unafraid of spilling blood, royal or otherwise.”

“Like a ghoul.” Lylah finished, letting out a slow breath.

“Like a ghoul.” Dany conceded.

“So you’re set on keeping his child, then?” Lylah asked, worry painted across her features.

“I’m set on keeping _my_ child.” Dany countered, making it clear there would be no further discussion on the matter.

Lylah was quiet a few moments, considering. “That’s all a very heavy mantle to place on Grey, Dany. Especially under the circumstances.” She looked Dany in the eye. “You’ve collared her. You just used the laws of the House of Black and White to do it, rather than your own hands.”

Dany looked away, silent.

“But,” Lylah’s lips pulled into a grim line, “it’s too late to change that now. And I can’t see a way you can possibly set out to do any of this without her. Does she even know what you’re planning? Who will be hunting you?”

“I can’t,” Dany said softly, “and she doesn’t. Not yet.”

“Gods have mercy.” Lylah’s face fell. “And just how do you intend to buy a ship? Even if all of us pooled everything we had together, I don’t think it would be enough.”

“That’s another reason I need Grey.” Dany answered, glancing over her handmaiden’s shoulder to look at the ornate case that held her dragon eggs. “I need her connections to broker a sale.”


	18. By Any Other Name

The silence that surrounded her was incomplete.

It was not hollow, as it so often was in the House of Black and White; a void simply waiting to grasp an echo from the bottom-most chambers of the temple. There was a thickness to it that made it palpable, heavy, and it pressed upon her like the will of the Many-Faced God himself.

Until a light intake of breath broke it.

She opened her eyes, slowly, letting them adjust to the low light of a flickering candle as she looked up at the wide wooden beams of the unfamiliar ceiling above her.

_Purple harbor. The house with the red door._

She felt a slight shift near her waist, and turned to see Dany seated at the edge of the bed beside her, shadows playing across the soft lines of her face.

“You’re awake.” She said.

Stretching muscles that had gone stiff with repose, Grey sat up, the blanket that had been enveloping her dropping to her lap. “I am.” She glanced down at the coverlet, then back up at Dany, realizing she’d been tended to. “Thank you,” she said, feeling suddenly sheepish. “How long was I out?”

“It’s been a few hours. Not very long, considering the state you were in.” She reached over, brushing her fingertips beside the angry wound on Grey’s brow. “I apologize for Ser Willem and Lylah. I should have spoken to them before bringing you inside.”

Grey shook her head. “It was just as much my own fault. It was the wrong approach entirely; I forgot that playing the debonair suitor only works when I actually _look_ the part.” She gestured to the scar that marked her trade.

Dany raised an eyebrow. “And was that what you wanted Ser Willem to think? That you were my well-intentioned caller?”

“At that moment, I thought maybe it would be easier than the truth.”

Dany looked down and sighed. “About that... I promised you an explanation.”

“You did.” Grey agreed.

“It’s funny,” Dany turned her head aside and looked out the darkened window, “just one day ago all I was trying to do was work up the courage to go see you, and ask you to kill someone for me. It had seemed so entirely impossible.” She turned back to Grey. “But now, I find myself longing for it all to be _that simple_.”

Her eyes were soulful and unguarded, the same as they had been when she’d first confessed her Targaryen identity in Silty Town. And, despite the quiet fury that had thrummed through her earlier, Grey felt herself drawn in again. “ _Valar morghulis_ to _valar dohaeris_ in the space of a day,” she said, keeping her tone as soft as Dany’s eyes. “What changed?”

The timbre of her gentle inquiry seemed to put Dany at ease somewhat. “My entire world, more or less.” She answered, suddenly looking as tired as Grey felt. “I’m purchasing a ship and leaving Braavos.”

Grey’s brow furrowed. Of all the things Dany could have told her, that was one of the last she’d expected. “Why? Have there been threats from Westeros?”

“Yes, but it’s not only that.”

“What else is it?”

Dany took a deep breath. “There was a ship headed to Tyrosh caught in a storm, just off the Braavosi Coastlands – the _Arlansa_. One of our shepherds, Rafe, was on it, set to smuggle fifteen slaves out of the stronghold, and back to Braavos.”

“And I’m guessing Rafe didn’t survive.” Grey said, starting to piece together Dany’s dilemma. “And those slaves don’t even realize they’re waiting on a ship that won’t come in.”

Dany nodded.

“Tyrosh, that’s not going to be easy. It’s an old Valyrian military outpost; a fortress city surrounded by walls of dragonstone. If they suspect anything amiss, we’ll all be left hanging from the Bleeding Tower.”

“Then they can’t suspect anything amiss.” Dany asserted.

Grey leaned her head back against the great headboard, and raked a hand through her hair. “The Tyroshi are a greedy lot. If you sail a new ship into their harbor, their suspicions may be assuaged if they believe you have some valuable cargo in the hold.”

“What kind of cargo?”

“Any sort of luxury item. Silks, gems, rare wines, or feathers – brightly colored feathers from the wings of large birds. They tip the helms of noblemen with them.” Grey snorted. “Bunch of bloody peacocks.”

Dany’s face fell. “Even if I had the means to fill a cargo hold with _any_ of those things, how could I possibly acquire that much so quickly?”

“You can’t.” Grey said simply. “But it doesn’t matter. They only need to _think_ you have the cargo. We’ll get a hold of a few casks of Arbor red wine. Three or four should be enough. We’ll fill the rest of the hold with the cheapest red swill we can find, and stamp it with the Redwyne sigil. Once the inspectors taste the real thing, they’ll assume it’s all the same. We get the slaves on board through the bustle while we’re unloading, and it’s likely no one will look twice. We have one of your other Chainbreaker friends quickly sell the entire lot to the highest bidder, then sail back to Braavos.”

The way Dany looked at her then, with such faith and hope, reached inside the very self she had forsaken, and made Grey’s steady heart trip a beat. “And that will really work? It’s that simple?”

“I believe it will work, yes. But, no, it’s not quite that simple. There’s still a matter of finding the right ship, and the right crew to sail her.” Grey closed her eyes and winced, as a lance of pain drove through the back of her skull, a keen reminder of Lylah’s skilled aim.

“Grey?” A warm hand cupped her cheek.

“S’alright,” the ghoul hissed, “it’ll pass.”

The comforting hand remained, and through the hurt desire surged through Grey’s veins. “What happened to you? Before I went to the House of Black and White?”

_I had just decided I needed to stay away from you._

_I drank. I drowned. I died._

“I was just caught in Drowned Town at the wrong time.” Grey answered, the thought of a lie at this moment inexplicably distasteful.

Worry filled those deep violet eyes, humbling the assassin.

“After Tyrosh,” Dany said quietly, “I’m sailing to Lys. Volantis. Meereen. Yunkai. All of the free cities.”

“Freeing more slaves, princess?” Grey’s voice caught imperceptibly, and she felt herself starting to lean in closer.

“Yes.” There was a blush in Dany’s voice that was unseen on her porcelain skin. She glanced down, and then back up into slate eyes again. “And I want you to come with me.”

No One was close enough to feel the Targaryen exile’s breath against her skin. “ _Valar dohaeris_ , Dany – you already know I’ll go wherever you need.”

“Not for _valar dohaeris_ ,” Dany murmured sweetly, brushing her lips over the corner of Grey’s mouth. “Choose. I want you to _choose_ to come with me. I can’t take you against your will, no matter what the House of Black and White has granted me.”

“I’m a ghoul, Dany.” She whispered gruffly, desperately trying to hold shut the barred doors within herself that were threatening to fracture. “In your service, as you wanted.”

Undeterred, Dany held her ground, accenting her request with delicate kisses. “You are a servant of the Many-Faced God,” she corrected, reiterating her dislike for the common slur, “and what I _want_ … is only for you to choose.”

Ceding, Grey turned ever so slightly, catching Dany’s lips with her own. “I will.”

Dany pressed in, her hand dropping from the ghoul’s cheek to wind around the back of her neck. “Say it,” she insisted.

A carefully crafted partition within No One snapped, washed away in a flood of something that belonged to the wolf she’d caged:

Want.

Grey slid into High Valyrian, giving Dany every word of her decision in her own royal blood’s tongue. _“I choose to go with you, Daenerys Targaryen.”_

And then Dany kissed her – not like she had at the Uncloaking, demure and ethereal - but hard and fierce and consuming as flame. Grey lost herself completely in the heated form that fit so perfectly against her own; the sure fingers running through her hair, the gentle coaxing against her tongue. Somewhere beneath the wreckage of her resolve No One railed, ordering her to pull back and fall away, _warning_ her, but there was nothing to be done for it – Dany was fever incarnate, leaving the killer aching and panting by the time she finally pulled away.

Dany rested her cheek on Grey’s shoulder, tenderly kissing her neck as she closed her eyes. “ _I will never collar you, wild wolf_ ,” she said, her Valyrian no less than poetry. “ _Remember that_.”

The assassin could only nod slightly, her arms instinctively locking around the dragon settled against her.

Dany needed no chains.

Some piece that was left of Arya Stark was binding No One completely without them.

 

**………**

 

For over three hundred years, all of time had been measured against Targaryen arrival. Aegon’s Conquest of Westeros and uniting all but one of its seven kingdoms under his rule had ushered in a new age, causing every event thereafter to fall under the calendar of dragons.

Almost as if he had intended to wipe out everything that had come before as meaningless.

As the sun began to rise over the free city of Braavos, the No One who had been named Grey by the same blood of the dragon that had altered the entire course of history felt her own chronology similarly shift –

There was everything before Dany.

And then there was the conflicting uncertainty of what her life was going to become after Dany.

Hand tucked around Grey’s waist and cheek rested against her chest, the silver-haired cataclysm slept soundly, oblivious to the turmoil that roiled just beneath her.

It had been a long and arduous road that had led her to set Arya Stark aside. She couldn’t count all of the pains, sorrows, and humiliations she’d endured for the sake of revenge, until one day, when she finally had the strength and power to take all that she’d been living for, she reached for the rage that had driven her and found only… _nothing_. There was no grief, there was no anguish, there was no anger, no despair – just a cool, dark void, soothing in its placid emptiness.

It was within that tranquil hollow that she fully embraced No One, and was able to carve out some semblance of a life in death’s temple. It may not have been much; serving the Many-Faced God required the forsaking of nearly every desire that could make a person _someone_ , but it was far more than Arya Stark and the broken ruins of the north she carried with her had to offer.

But now there was something _else_ being offered, at least for a time. And she’d accepted it.

She didn’t know if Dany had really meant what she said, about not taking her against her will, but even the illusion of choice was something she had forgotten. Questions had been seized from her as much as personal inclinations, but now remnants of the long-dead had revived, and there was more than just the peace of No One guiding her actions.

And it was more than _valar dohaeris_ that made her want to sail away with Dany.

That acknowledgement was as far as she got in deciphering her own motives. Far off down the hall, she could hear quiet shuffling and the telltale padding of morning footfalls – the Darry household was rising along with the sun.

Dany must have heard the same, her shoulders jerking as she started.

“Good morning.” Grey said, looking down at sleep-hazed purple eyes.

A light flush colored alabaster cheeks as Dany became aware of her surroundings, and her grip around her ghoulish pillow. “Good morning,” she returned, stretching supple limbs before settling back into her pleasantly entangled position.

“By all means, make yourself comfortable.” Grey said playfully.

“Hmm… I have.” Dany countered impishly. “You’re warmer than I thought you’d be.”

“I am?” A dark brow rose in question.

“You are.” Dany concluded, closing her eyes and taking in a deep breath. “I need to ask if you can help me with something today.”

“What is it?” Grey brushed a platinum lock behind Dany’s ear.

Dany tightened her grasp around Grey’s waist. “Stay with me here a few more minutes, and then I’ll show you.”

 

**………**

 

Grey stared into the black onyx, eyes following swirls of scarlet so deep they appeared to bleed. “Dany, these are beautiful.”

“They are.” Daenerys cradled the emerald egg she favored, fingertip tracing around the scaled circumference. “But they serve no other purpose. And I _need_ a ship.”

Grey gently set the stone egg back down into the elegant box. “Selling two would be more than enough to buy you a ship, and anything else you could possibly need. You should keep one.”

Dany shook her head. “I never should have had them in the first place. They were a gift given to me in order to…” she looked over at Grey anxiously, then back down to the jade egg. “There’s just no reason for me to keep any.”

“You’re a Targaryen. You’re the _only_ person who should have these, Daenerys.” Grey asserted, rising to her feet and holding a hand out to help Dany as well. “I’ll go speak with the Wharf King now, and have him set up a buyer. Shouldn’t take more than a day or two.”

“Can I go with you?” Dany asked.

“No, and believe me, you wouldn’t want to.” She softened her tone when she saw Dany’s flicker of disappointment. “Right now he’s in no place fit for a princess.”

Daenerys pulled open her door with a resigned sigh. “Alright. I’ll take Lylah and go to the harbor to speak with a few shipwrights. We’ll be back later this afternoon.”

Grey followed Dany through the estate, heading toward the great red door she was becoming so familiar with, when Ser Willem stepped into their path.

“Ghoul .”

Wanting to maintain peace for the sake of the oath she’d given Dany, Grey left her sword untouched at her side and tilted her head deferentially. “Ser Willem.”

The old knight met her eyes, hard as he weighed her. Grey could feel Dany tense at her side, and she met Ser Willem’s gaze, unfaltering.

“Thank you.” The old man said after a moment, offering his hand much like Grey had done the day before. “For… whatever it is, that you’re helping Dany with.”

Steel eyes blinked in surprise, and Grey lifted her hand and clasped Ser Willem’s much larger one firmly. “ _Valar dohaeris_ ,” she said carefully, “it’s no trouble.”

Grey could hear Dany let out a breath she probably didn’t even realize she had been holding, and saw her give her old guardian a look of pure gratitude.

Ser Willem looked away from Dany, clearing his throat. “So,” he started, “I can’t help but notice you’re not a Braavosi.” He gestured to Grey. “Just how long ago was it that you left Westeros?”

Grey stiffened as long buried images flashed through her mind unbidden – a horse named Craven, the distant shore of Saltpans, the noble figurehead on the prow of the Titan’s Daughter, the first time she looked up at the Titan of Braavos – and she had to fight the urge to snarl.

“You were from Westeros?” Dany asked abruptly, her curiosity apparent.

“She was,” Ser Willem answered for her, certain. “The North, in fact.” He waved a massive hand in the air in front of her face. “Dark hair, grey eyes, pale skin – that’s the ‘northern look’. I saw it enough during my years of service at the Red Keep, when the Starks and their bannermen would ride south. That scar is not nearly enough to hide it.” His lips pulled into a grim line. “It’s a shame, what happened to them. If the stories that made their way across the Narrow Sea are to be believed, at any rate.” He paused. “Are they?”

Somewhere, lost, Arya Stark howled.

“Anything you may have heard here about what happened to the Lords of the North,” No One said coolly, pushing Grey aside to dive into the dark, blank abyss she suddenly needed more than breath, “the truth is far, far worse.”

And with that, she walked out.

 

**……….**

 

Even in the early morning, The Happy Port was the busiest whorehouse in Braavos.

Located right on the docks of Ragman’s Harbor, it was the first port of call for every lonely sailor and fisherman returning home or passing through; the faded red velvet curtains that hung from the windows as much a friendly beacon as any lighthouse.

She had not lied to Dany. It truly was no place for a princess.

When No One walked in, she was assaulted by dim lighting, and the melded stink of sweat, sea that had lingered too long on the skin, and drunken coupling. A scantily-clad dockside vixen accompanied by a well-muscled Summer Islander made to welcome her, presumably to question her pleasure and gauge her coinpurse, until the dusky escort noticed the left side of her face. “In the back,” he said, jerking a thumb over his shoulder. “Beneath the bar.”

She gave a nod of thanks, and the two moved aside to let her by. She passed through the lounge, ignoring the dried bloodstains and spilled rum that marred the wooden floor, along with the lying whispers that surrounded her from each side as men and women played at lust becoming something more.

When she came before the barman, he moved aside too, and pointed to the iron handle protruding from the rough-hewn outline cut into the floor.

For a brief moment, she missed the dank tower in Drowned Town that had killed her.

She lifted the crude door, and climbed down a ladder into sparse chamber that served as the Wharf King’s newest abode.

“ _Valar morghulis,”_ No One said evenly, unmoving once she reached the bottom.

“ _Valar dohaeris.”_

“ _I’ve come that you should be his eyes, so I may be his hand.”_ The ghoul said respectfully, awaiting proper invitation.

A rich chuckle accompanied consent. “Come in, Gentleman – or is it ‘Grey’, now?”

“I am mirage and blades,” she said, remembering the words they once shared as she twirled a thin steel fingerknife, knowing he could hear the motion better than any could see its blur. “By _any_ title.” She slid the blade away, and raised her brow as she glanced up at his ceiling, the Happy Port’s planked floor. “And you, Wharf King, are just a dirty old man. Really? The entirety of both overworld and underworld Braavos at your feet, and you choose to stay _here_?”

“Hah!” The Wharf King’s heavy hands clapped together. “You say this to me now, when you come in here _covered_ in the scent of that Targaryen Princess you’re bedding?”

“I’m not bedding her.” No One gripped the loose fabric at the front of her shirt and lifted it to her nose, sniffing.

“And just why the hell _not_?” A large hand poured two cups of mulled wine, offering her one. “I know you were at Oressa’s long enough to learn a thing or two.” He took a long drink. “We’ll still always call you ‘The Gentleman’, you know.”

The younger ghoul pinched the bridge of her nose, exasperated. “ _Valar dohaeris_ ,” she said, “it’s _business_.”

“Soon enough, then.” The Wharf King smirked, pointedly ignoring her denial. “And just what aspect of this _business_ brings you to me now? I wasn’t expecting to hear from you until you were ready to set sail with the clever Chainbreaker.”

“Related to that very voyage,” No One said. “I your help to broker a sale.”

“Hm. Of just what, exactly?” He tilted his head back, finishing the rest of his wine before she’d even tasted her own.

“Two dragon eggs.”

“Ah. She didn’t care for her questionable suitor, then.” He said knowingly. “Though, I could have sworn there were _three_ delivered into her lovely hands.”

“She’s keeping one.” No One supplied, refusing to take the Wharf King’s bait and question Dany’s circumstances further.

“Fair enough. I’ll make arrangements, and send word to you in Purple Harbor later.”

“Thank you, Wharf King.” A mug lifted in salute that he couldn’t see, and No One finally indulged in her spiced wine.

A grunt of acknowledgement, and then: “Once the pretty princess does weigh anchor, where is she taking you first?”

“Tyrosh. To pick up the fallen _Arlansa’s_ … cargo. If it’s not too late.”

“Noble endeavor.” He rubbed his chin. “I have a task for you, once you reach the fortress city. You were given a face from the hall to take with you, were you not?”

“Yes. _One_.” No One scowled, remembering the Old Man taking her hands and placing Dane’s face into them before she left with Daenerys. ‘ _Lest you forget,_ ’ he’d said, with that smile she’d once been fool enough to mistake for kindly.

“Good.” The broad man strode over to a tall shelf stacked with books that he couldn’t possibly read. He picked up a red-spined tome, and spun through a few pages until a small, sealed missive feel into his palm. “You’re going to deliver a message to an old friend I have waiting there.” He made his way back to her, and held out the tightly folded parchment.

A _messenger_? After all of her years of training, _that’s_ how she was meant to serve the Wharf King while bound to Dany? Running errands any wharf rat could manage?

“Of course,” she said, expertly masking her disappointment as she took it. “Where will I find your ‘old friend?’”

Sightless eyes penetrated her from behind folded fabric, as if he could hear her unspoken thoughts. “He’s being held prisoner at the top of the Bleeding Tower.”

 

**……….**

**AN: Those wondering why Dany used the term ‘wild wolf’ when Arya’s identity hasn’t been revealed yet – she wore a wolf mask at the masquerade ball. Dany never forgot ;)**


	19. Valar Dohaeris

Ser Willem sat at the sunlit table, his hands clasped on the wood grain surface, and his shoulders hunched as he bore up under the weight of his long, burdensome years.

He’d never felt so very old before.

Eyes that were continually dimming stared hard at a stained knot that darkened the tabletop, just to the left of the spot he would always set down his mug at supper. It was a strange thing to fixate on, he knew – an artistic flaw that had been present so long it didn’t even garner notice anymore – yet it was a perfect representation of what was revealed to be his most perilous shortcoming:

He was blind to things he’d been staring straight at for years.

What else could explain the fact that Dany had been running with Chainbreakers under his very nose for the last five years, without him ever having a clue? True, she had Lylah covering for her at every turn, but _still_.

He should have known regardless.

Then again, didn’t fathers always have a blind spot when it came to their little girls?

Perhaps that truth, more than anything else, could allow him to justify his own ignorance when it came to that particular revelation.

As for the other insights Daenerys had granted him as he questioned her over breakfast, most of those he had seen coming in some form or another. That she was leaving was always inevitable; whether she’d accepted Aegon’s proposal, or chose to submit to Viserys’ demands, or wanted no part of any of it and decided to build an entirely different life elsewhere, he knew the day would come when Dany would pack up, and he’d have to let her go. That she was planning to forsake her birthright to live on a _ship_ , sailing down the coast of Essos while battling against a vile institution that had thrived for thousands of years – _that_ would take some getting used to, but he’d always been an adaptable man. He wouldn’t have been able to leave his country and everything he’d known to raise the young Targaryens in a strange, foreign land otherwise.

That she had refused to drink the moon tea hadn’t much surprised him either. He’d known it was a longshot, even though it was by far the safest course for her – Dany was a nurturer, a mender of broken and wounded things. Death and destruction had never been in her nature, which made her most recent choice of companions all the more… disconcerting.

Nearly two decades living in Braavos had taught him little about the ghouls that wasn’t already public knowledge. They forsook themselves in worship of their deity, death itself. They could change their faces as easily as another man could change his clothes, and when they wore their own, they each had thick, identifying scars cut across their features. They provided interment services for those who had no one else, and fatal mercy for those who sought after it. They had connections throughout the Free City, from small local merchants who kept an eye on the comings and goings at the docks, all the way to the inner sanctum of the great Iron Bank itself.

And then, of course, there were their more _elite_ services.

Everyone knew the Faceless Men of the House of Black and White were the most proficient assassins on either side of the Narrow Sea. Ser Willem did not know how those particular arrangements were made, only that they could beggar a king or prosper the penniless when an agreement _was_ struck. They were as contrary as their representative colors in those matters, and he’d never wasted his time trying to make sense of something so inherently distasteful.

Dany, on the other hand, seemed to have a different view entirely.

How a sweet young woman from Purple Harbor ended up with a ghoul indebted to her, he would never understand. She couldn’t answer him when he’d asked her just what she’d done to earn Grey’s mark, though she did promise to find out as soon as they had another chance to talk. He could only presume it had something to do with all of her anti-slavery efforts.

He let out a deep sigh. He didn’t have anything against the ghouls personally, though he understood those who did take issue with them. Unlike most of the gods people chose to worship, at least death had shown proof of existence, macabre as it may be. And killing? He’d done as much of that as the next man; that it was done under a banner of service didn’t change the fact. And there _was_ a decency to taking care of the dead that would be left forgotten otherwise – even if, once again, it bordered on morbidity. No, it wasn’t that he knew Grey was ghoul that left Ser Willem unsettled, now that he understood her purpose at Dany’s side – it was everything else he _didn’t_ know.

Who was she, beneath the well-polished courtesies and Northern countenance? Did an acolyte of Death truly renounce themselves, all they were, all they held dear, in order to serve? Or did she still harbor old resentments from her homeland? The North Remembers, they always said. Was Grey old enough to remember the Mad King’s sport, and the gruesome end it had made of Lord Rickard and Brandon Stark? Did her family remember? Was she born into her liege lords’ feuds, just waiting for the perfect moment to strike at Dany in cold blood?

When Grey had attacked him in the doorway, he hadn’t even seen her move. He had been disarmed and held at knifepoint as if he were nothing more than an anemic child. She could have slaughtered his entire household, right then, and there wouldn’t have been a thing he could do about it.

It haunted him.

If there was some semblance of honor amongst the ghouls, and she would serve under Dany’s command as _valar dohaeris_ demanded, then he could rest easier, knowing she had that kind of protection in his absence.

If she was false, however – he had to find some way to end her, before Dany set sail and was beyond his reach.

_‘Valar dohaeris. They will come to no harm by my hand.’_

He would press in as hard as he needed to, until he knew exactly where the ghoul’s loyalties lay.

 

**……..**

 

It was late afternoon when Dany returned with Lylah right behind her, a smile as warm as summer sunshine lighting her face, and a bundle of rolled parchment under her arm.

“Well then,” the pensive old knight set aside the somber reflections he’d traipsed through all morning, “I’m guessing things went well for you with the shipwrights.”

“They did.” Dany leaned down to kiss Ser Willem’s cheek once she reached the table, “I found my ship.”

The old grizzly chuckled. “Don’t keep me in suspense.” He motioned to the diagrams she held at her side. “Let me take a look; make sure everything is in order.”

Lylah circled around the opposite side of the table while Daenerys unfurled the parchment over it, revealing plans for a mid-size carrack.

Ser Willem let out a whistle. “That’s no small ship, Dany, even at those specifications.” His eyes traced over the dimensions – height, width, cargo depth, projected weight, cabin space within the forecastle. “This ship is meant to carry heavy burdens, very far away.” He said to her, pointedly.

Violet eyes met his own, taking his meaning. “Exactly.”

She did not hesitate or falter in the slightest when she answered him; her course was set. Ser Willem could only give a small nod of acceptance, then looked back down to the drafts. “Reliant on sails, then?”

“Primarily, yes,” Dany pressed a fingertip to the schematic, “but it’ll also support up to forty oarsmen if the winds stall.”

“About half as many as a fully-armed war galley.” Ser Willem muttered, grimacing. “If you’re ever pursued without the help of a strong wind, you will be overtaken.”

“It’s possible, yes.” Dany conceded. “But unlikely. War galleys aren’t suited for the open sea; their low setting grants them speed and maneuverability, but limits them to the coast. That’s the only time we’ll be in any real danger – once we’re far enough from shore, they won’t be able to follow us.”

Ser Willem gave a grunt of acknowledgement, revisiting the lightly quilled height designation. “If they did catch you, they’d have a hell of a time trying to board. You could cut down their hooks and grapplers long before they reached the deck.”

“We could.” Dany agreed. “Though hopefully it never comes to that.”

She had chosen well, in all. He was ashamed at how that surprised him – he’d always viewed her desire to sail as a flight of fancy.

Once again, he’d been blind to things he’d been staring straight at for years.

“Hope for the best, prepare for the worst.” Ser Willem said solemnly. “Always remember that, Dany.”

“I will.” Daenerys said, resting her small hand over the old knight’s larger one. “I promise.”

Feeling an uncomfortable heat burgeoning in his chest, Ser Willem cleared his throat and squared his shoulders once more. “So, how long before it’s officially yours?”

“Well, I’m told this one can be finished in the space of a week. I just need to sell the dragon eggs and pay off the remaining balance. It’s already half-built.”

“I see. So it’s being pieced together at the Arsenal, then.” At that rate of construction, it wasn’t even a question.

The Arsenal was a citadel that protected Braavos, located just beyond the Titan that stood sentry over its entrance. Housing the city’s defense fleet and fortified with stone battlements and bristling with scorpions, trebuchets and spitfires, it was designed to make a quick and painful end to any unwelcome guests who might possibly manage to slip through the Titan’s own defenses, long before they could ever reach the free city. But even more than that, along the entire length of the Arsenal’s rocky shores were quays, docks, and storehouses filled with ships in varying states of construction. Here, with the skilled mass of shipwrights and freeman laborers working together, an entire war galley could be constructed in the space of a single day.

“It is,” Dany confirmed. “Shipwright Taggaro will be overseeing until completion.”

“What about your supplies?” The grizzled knight asked. “Your crew?”

“I’m working on that, Ser Willem.” Lylah answered. “I’m compiling a list of stores with Dagen, and we’re going to have the captain of _The Lonely Wind_ look it over to make sure we haven’t missed anything. Then we’ll put in our orders with the merchants.”

“Dagen?” Ser Willem’s brow furrowed as he tried to place the name.

“Another Chainbreaker.” Lylah said quietly, looking downward.

He’d been livid when he found out that Lylah had been hiding Dany’s involvement with the group from him for so long, and he could see the toll his anger had taken on the handmaid. “Maybe,” he said gruffly, “you should invite him to dinner after you finish that list. Him, and the rest of that lot you two have been tearing up the docks with for so long.”

It was coarse and it was boorish, but that had always been his way. Absolution came in many forms, and in this case, it was accepted with much more grace than it had been given. “I think they’d all like that, Ser Willem,” Lylah said with a smile as gentle as Dany’s was warm, “thank you.”

The hard edges of his eyes softened, just a little. “And what about the rest of your crew? I’m sure the rest of your Chainbreakers all mean well, but from what you’ve told me most of the work you’ve been doing is on land, once the slaves are brought back to Braavos. Only a few with any contacts outside of the city, and even less with _real_ experience sailing out anywhere.”

“Grey is going to take care of that.” Dany answered smoothly. “She knows a few sailors we can trust, and we’ll hire out the rest.”

“Ah, the ever-talented Grey.” the weathered master-at-arms tried unsuccessfully to keep the irritation from his tone. “And where is your pet ghoul now, by chance?”

“Please, Ser Willem,” Dany entreated, “you know I hate that term. And she’s out arranging the sale for me – she’ll be back soon, I’m sure.”

“Will she?” Ser Willem raised his brow. “What if she doesn’t come back at all? Seems to me a lot of this plan you have rests on the word of a stranger.”

“She’ll be back.” Dany said, with the surety of a commander. “And she’s not a stranger – not to me.”

Ser Willem could only hope Dany’s faith was well-founded.

 

**……….**

 

The ghoul did return in the early evening, just after Lylah had drawn Dany a bath.

“Ser Willem.” She gave him a respectful nod, as always, before turning down the hall to the guest chamber.

The grizzly waited a few moments, then pushed back his chair and stood up, sword at his side. He could hear faint chatter from the direction of Dany’s room, followed by the tinkling of laughter.

There was no better time.

He strode down the hall toward the guest room, each step heavy with confident authority. He stopped at the doorway of his former royal ward, and saw Grey sitting beside the window with a whetstone, sharpening a dagger. “Ghoul.”

Slate eyes glanced over at him, questioning.

“I’m told you know your way around a blade,” the old knight said, “that you’ve even been known to duel the Sealord’s First Sword on occasion.”

“I’ve trained with Qarro.” Grey affirmed.

“So it would seem.” Ser Willem drew his blade and tipped it in invitation. “Show me.”

“I’d rather not.” The ghoul returned to her task, the edge of her blade making a quiet scraping sound as it rasped across the stone.

Ser Willem’s lips pulled into a grim line. “Do you mean to insult me in my own house, then?”

“I don’t.” The scraping continued.

“Then get on your feet and draw your blade.” He paused a moment for effect, then lowered his voice. “That’s not a _request_.”

Hard eyes regarded him. “Leave. Now.”

And there it was. That killer instinct he’d glimpsed before, rising to the surface.

Would she still serve, even it required her to reign in her own reflexive impulses?

Far quicker than a man his age should have been able to, he thrust his blade forward, cutting a thin line of red along the length of Grey’s jaw. “I said get on your feet, and draw your blade.”

The assassin did not blink, she did not flinch – it was as if the pain he’d inflicted didn’t so much as register. “No.”

It was a promising sign, but not enough.

Bearing down over her, he gripped her collar and lifted her off of her feet, his grip tightening around the hilt of his sword. “If you don’t draw your blade, I’ll simply kill you where you stand, _ghoul_.”

The look she gave him could freeze a man right through his bones – but her arms remained still at her sides.

Lifting until he had to look up at her, his arm almost fully extended, he pressed the tip of his sword beneath her ribs, holding it still as both linen and skin gave way around it, painting a red bloom around the blade. “This is your last chance.”

A snarl curled Grey’s lips, and she muttered something he couldn’t quite make out through the blood rushing in his ears. “What’s that?” he demanded, his grip becoming a white-knuckled fist around her collar.

“ _Valar dohaeris_ – tell Dany that,” she spat down at him, still refusing to draw her blade.

**_Now_. **

He slammed her up against the wall, and pulled his blade back, aiming for her chest. She watched him, cool and detached, and he felt her tense just enough to brace for fatal impact-

And then he set her back down on her feet, sheathing his sword as his hands shook.

“Follow her in all things with such conviction,” he said, his voice nearly lost, “and you will always find welcome in this house, Grey.”

As he slowly walked out, he dared not turn around.

 

**……….**

**AN: For any ship enthusiasts out there, ASOIAF does stray from known historical design with a few of its vessels. So I’ve tried to strike a balance between reality and the ‘verse this fic takes place in, which should explain any anomalies you may find.**


	20. The Dreamer and the Halfman

_For two days I do not speak._

_My tongue is heavy and dry in my mouth, a thick and graceless thing of ill omen. My heart is stone within my chest, burdensome; grieved._

_I dare not sleep, lest I am claimed by it again._

_Oros the Majestic, south of the Lands of Long Summer, with alabaster towers that reach towards the heavens._

_Tyria the Radiant, north of capital, with shining walls and deep blue waters that glisten even when the sun is veiled._

_And Valyria the Exalted, cradle of civilization and stronghold of the glorious dragonlords – my forebears; kin of an empire._

_I still hear the screams; smell the acrid burning of both flesh and stone._

_I still see the fire and blood hidden beneath the lustrous surface; seeds we have sown for the destruction we reap. Men without faces labor within the mines, lean and soot-stained, breathing in poison that tastes of ash. Fine robes hang over the wrists of pale hands that reach out to them, gifting them with long-kept secrets; death, death in spheres of swirling flame. They crawl through the dark, the dust, beneath the temples, the dragonroads, the mountains. They dig through stone and diamond, curling around the infernos they bear in their sepulchers, still… so very still._

_Hooded men with fire dancing across their fingertips bend and shape their creation while whispering an old, accursed tongue. Their words slither into my ears, corrupt and unwelcome, as beasts of ember are formed, twisting and abhorrent._

_Incantations. A destructive hymn rasped from dried lips. Weathered hands release their hold on their blazing creations, and they burrow into dark recesses, igniting. Clutched orbs in unmarked graves shatter and spill forth hellfire, consuming until our world itself is swallowed whole, kindled._

_The land splits asunder, shaking violently as it devours all it once embraced. Searing smoke billows through rents in the earth, melting the flesh from even the great dragons that circle the sky above. They fall, as blistered as their charred riders._

_I reach out, try to comfort at the last, but it is too late._

_All is lost._

_Mountains and hills collapse, crushing and entombing their former masters. Babes are swept from the arms of their mothers to drown in a boiling sea. Flooding, rushing waters tear trees from their roots, wives from their husbands. Homes crumble, wood splinters, marble cracks, steel heats and twists. Tyria, resplendent, is ruptured; chewed in the burning bowels of the earth and spewed back up as broken, blackened ruins; desolate. Regal Oros, fractured and breached, drifts from sovereign soil, carried by a scalding current to northern shores._

_Flame is a scourge, once our protection, now our undoing._

_I see the passage of time, flowing like a river for the tears I cannot stop shedding._

_Centuries imprinted by scars; blight and overgrowth riddle all that remains. A city of monsters lays in wait over what is left of Oros, now shade and debris. Disfigurement mars the creatures who seek refuge in the abandoned wreckage, though some still consider it shelter._

_Tyria teems with the forsaken; men with limbs of stone and unnatural hunger are discarded upon its banks, beneath a reddened sky. They devour and afflict until Valyria becomes every sailor’s curse, a dread. Hard men, men of iron and violence fear its taint, etch runes of blood over their skin if they must so much as set eyes upon it._

_A bane._

_A bane our home shall become, before my days are ended. And a bane our home shall remain, long after our bones turn to dust, ‘till the day my blood returns…._

**_-Signs and Portents, the Visions of Daenys Targaryen_ **

**………..**

 

“You’re pouting.”

Tyrion leaned up, carefully taking the proffered grape between his teeth before snapping down on it. “I am not.”

“You are.” Danika insisted, her long, black hair spilling over her shoulder as she turned to seize a slice of orange from bedside platter. “You have been pouting ever since you heard about this wedding.” She dangled the piece of citrus just over his lips, pulling back slightly when he lifted his head to reach it. “Tell me why. Are you jealous?”

Tyrion’s eyes widened incredulously. “Jealous? What reason would I possibly have to be jealous?” He tilted upward again, only to be denied the fruit once more.

A well-manicured brow arched. “I don’t know. Perhaps it is _you_ who wanted to marry Telara Maegyr?”

Tyrion’s head fell back into Danika’s lap, and he began to chuckle. “Oh my dear – have you ever _seen_ Telara Maegyr?”

Danika bit her bottom lip, momentarily forgetting about the orange. “I think so, once.” A pause. “Maybe. She was riding an elephant.”

“She _was_ the elephant.” Tyrion corrected her playfully, taking advantage of her distraction to finally catch a bite of his prize. “No, safe to say I am not pining away for dear Telara.”

Danika popped the remaining half of the slice into her mouth, chewing thoughtfully. “Well what is it, then?”

The dwarf sighed, inwardly cursing Danika’s growing ability to read his moods almost as well as his desires. Disclosure in any form, even in a foreign land across the Narrow Sea, could still be a dangerous thing, yet he knew he could not lie to her.

She always knew when he was lying.

“I’m pouting,” he said, resigned, “because attending Aegon Targaryen’s wedding is the last thing in the world I want to do.”

“Why? Has the boy wronged you?”

“No, more the other way around, if anything.” Mismatched eyes looked up at light blue ones. “Do you remember me telling you about my father, back in Westeros? Some of the things he did?”

“Before, or after you killed him on the privy?” Danika asked.

“This was very much before.” Tyrion confirmed. “At the end of King Robert’s rebellion, my father… took measures, to ensure the new Baratheon king would consider the Lannisters to be true subjects of the crown. He had joined the war effort later than most, you see, and didn’t want our family’s loyalty to be questioned.”

“Because your brother stabbing the old king wasn’t proof enough?” A note of surprise.

“My father was always a very _thorough_ man.” Tyrion said bitterly. “So thorough it was him who ordered the death of Aegon when he was just an infant, along with his sister Rhaenys.”

“Oh.” Understanding crossed the pleasure slave’s pretty features.

“Exactly.” Tyrion sat up, pulling the twisted sheet across his midsection as he reached for his wine. “I can just see it all now.” He waved his arm for dramatic effect. “Hello Aegon, pleasure to make your acquaintance – why _yes_ , it _was_ my father who ordered your murder at the Mountain’s hand. Would you like a pastry? Or a tasty little cheeseball?”

Danika just smirked. “Such a small man, so full of misgivings. Your father is dead, by your hand. The young prince has already offered you a full pardon once he takes the western throne. These are the actions of an ally, not an enemy.”

Tyrion scowled. “Or a desperate fraud.”

“Ah,” slender fingers lifted a fig. “So you think the boy is an imposter?”

Tyrion stared down into his wine, swirling it in his cup. “Like I said, my father was always a thorough man. He once annihilated two entire houses in the Westerlands for defying him. If he demanded dead Targaryen babies, I find it hard to believe anything less would have been laid at his feet.” He took a long drink, appreciating the conditioned dulling of his jagged recollections. “Then again, if _anyone_ could have deceived Tywin Lannister in his prime, it would have been Varys.”

“Even if Aegon is not who he claims, so long as he is a good man, would it be such a terrible thing?” Danika asked, gently pushing him outside the boundaries of the little box his mind kept the matter stored in. “I know you miss your home, at the Castle Rock.”

The tug of a grin. “ _Casterly_ Rock.” He reached for her hand, and kissed her palm. “If he is a good man, and rules in the best interest of his people,” Tyrion said carefully, lest his words become a snare, “then perhaps it may be a worthy lie. But,” he looked at her intently, “that boy has not yet had a taste of true power. He could be the most benevolent ruler ever to vomit over the side of a poleboat, yet put him on the Iron Throne, and you _will_ see a different side of him.”

“And this other side, you believe it will make things worse for your country, not better?”

“Truth be told, I’m not sure yet.”

_But before I go packing my bags to sail back to Westeros, I fully intend to find out._

**……….**

Noble marriages in Volantis were grand affairs by any accounting, but the joining of the Old Blood of a triarch with a prince of Valyria behind the great Black Wall would be a union to overshadow all others.

Set in the eastern half of the city often referred to as the heart of Old Volantis, the Black Wall stood two hundred feet high, a looming memento of the proud city’s heritage as a Valyrian outpost. Thick enough for horse chariots to race atop it, the fused black stone was harder than any steel or diamond, and served as a protective hedge for the elite – the Old Blood of the city who could trace their ancestry directly back to Valyria.

No others were permitted to dwell behind the dragonstone, and no outlander, freeman, or foreigner was allowed to so much as step foot behind the Black Wall, unless by direct invitation from a member of the Old Blood. Triarch Nyessos Vhassar, Tyrion’s host, was one such member, and it had granted the stunted Westerosi privilege he never would have been afforded otherwise.

It had taken two slave girls the better part of the morning just to make Tyrion presentable to attend the great wedding. They bathed him in a tub scented with oils that at first made his skin burn, then cool to the touch. Prayers to the old gods of Valyria, long forgotten to most, were spoken over his head as his hair was rinsed and combed back, tied off by a strip of tri-colored leather, marking him as a member of Nyessos’ household. Perfumed robes were wrapped around him in swaddling layers, stiff around his misshapen joints. Light velvet gloves were fitted over his hands, to be worn throughout the duration of the ceremony, lest his interloping touch may accidentally sully that which was hallowed. Thick leather sandals were bound over his feet and laced around his calves, hidden beneath all of the heavy fabric draped over his small frame. His face was shaven and powdered, and a satin veil was placed across the more heavily scarred side of it, bound by a thin string expertly knotted by deft fingers.

He smelled like a maid by the time they were through, and developed a whole new appreciation for the concealed efforts of all of the fine ladies who had served him so well in pillow houses throughout the years.

With preparations complete, he was led to Nyessos’ courtyard, and seated on a litter with a handful of other highly regarded members of the triarch’s household. Danika was not sanctioned to escort him, as the presence of slaves who were not in direct service of the wedding party was expressly forbidden. Even those who were bearing litters and carriages had to depart once their masters were delivered.

It vexed him in a way few things did.

Humans used as cattle hoisted the litter, and wound them through the labyrinth of palaces, towers, and temples that that made up the ‘city-within-the-city’ enclosed by the Black Wall. The pending nuptials had the Old Blood stirring in a way Tyrion had never seen before, not even during the triarch election – where that affair was a rush of shameless, unbridled chaos meant to pander to any man, woman, or child who could cast a vote, there was an unmistakable dignity and pride to this occasion, making him acutely aware of just how much this union meant to the Volantene people. Three-headed dragon banners hung beside every elephant and tiger flag, rippling in the warm winds, while dusty barrels of priceless, aged wines and strange spirits were trundled out of cellars, and distributed amongst the guests. Glasses were raised and Valyrian toasts were made, as those who still loved the doom-ridden motherland spoke of legacy and revival.

Being wealthy did not preclude one from being delusional.

The litter stopped, and muscular frames knelt down to set it on the smooth cobblestones of the city square. Tyrion slid himself out, his steps awkward and shifting within the swathes enveloping him, and he followed his austere companions to the great stone benches overlooking the golden dais where the bride and groom would be sealed.

Tyrion took note of the company he was keeping while they all awaited the main event. He was seated amongst his eastern counterparts, every inch as lavish as Lannisters with gold dripping from necks, wrists, fingers, and even ankles. He stood out despite the traditional garb that engulfed him; a tiny pale lion in a sea of olive-skinned felines and tuskers.

A goblet of rich wine was handed to him by an immaculate Maegyr host-servant, and after a few drinks, he felt a little less conspicuous. And once Malaquo Maegyr’s elephant stepped into view, the comparatively tiny triarch sitting triumphantly atop it, there were no eyes left wandering to gaze upon him anyways.

Considered to be consecrated during their term of service, triarchs were not permitted to step foot on the ground of Volantis, instead being carried around by opulently adorned elephants. Malaquo’s was well-known to be the most extravagant beast of them all, carrying the man’s weight three-times over just with the gold, silver, and precious gems that bedecked its tusks and hide.

Striding solemnly beside the equally gilded carriage that transported his daughter, the elephant served Malaquo’s will to give the bride away, leading Telara to the golden podium to await her groom.

Though she was still as heavyset as Tyrion remembered, he had to admit that no effort had been spared to make up for any perceived shortcoming Telara had. Her dress was exquisite, hand-stitched of the finest silk to accentuate every desirable curve, while minimizing those that may be less pleasing. Silver thread wound through hundreds of tiny pearls cuffing her wrists and neckline, and a sash of diamonds cinched around her hips. Her long auburn hair had been swept up and pinned with rubies and onyx, in deference to her husband-to-be’s House. Her cheeks were flushed, and she comported herself with an innocence that could be nothing but genuine.

She was a gentle girl, and true. The kind Tyrion knew he really _should_ have been pining over.

The slowly building thunder of approaching hooves marked the arrival of the groom, blazing through the ancient square on a chariot pulled by a team of strong black destriers, every inch the conqueror. He had the look of his claimed ancestry, of that there was no doubt – thick silver tresses, prominent cheekbones carved from the flawless marble that made up his face, long eyelashes undoubtedly hooding deep purple eyes, broad shoulders and a tall build that bespoke of Rhaegar reborn.

But looks weren’t everything.

Tyrion watched him carefully.

The horses slowed, and the rumored dragon looked up at the dais where his intended waited, hopeful and demure. Though he tried to suppress it, the look of disdain that crossed his countenance was blatant.

A green and black eye glanced over at Telara, concerned the girl may have seen Aegon’s distasteful reaction.

Fortunately, it seemed she had not.

A burly man, with red hair streaked with grey, stepped in behind the chariot and spoke a few quiet words Tyrion couldn’t quite hear. Aegon turned, clearly sullen as he looked down at the weathered man, his face flushed with barely contained rage.

Tyrion didn’t need to hear a thing to know exactly what was happening. The boy thought himself king already, and had been expecting a bride that reminded him of just how particularly magnificent and entitled he was every time he looked at her.

Telara would not serve in that regard, causing him to balk at his own wedding.

Tyrion pursed his lips and sighed. His royal pardon, his return home, his reinstatement as Lord of Casterly Rock and return to respectable standing all hinged on the strength and competence of this overgrown _boy_.

This boy who didn’t even understand the basic duty of matrimony.

This boy who was about to risk alienating an entire city that had embraced him, despite his questionable status.

This boy who apparently no longer believed that he needed Malaquo Maegyr’s ships and soldiers to take the Iron Throne.

This boy who was about to, one way or another, ruin gentle Telara Maegyr’s life.

There was no way Tyrion was returning to Westeros based on this boy’s claim, legitimate or not.

Varys would just have to understand.


	21. The Tessarion

There was nothing left of her but an edge of cold steel.

Her dextrous left hand, marking her a cursed child of the Stranger long before it ever grasped the hilt of a sword, set to its grim task, rushing her blade forward, seeking blood.

A nimble parry denied her.

A gifted right hand, charged with protecting the ruler of the only truly free city in Essos, countered with a swift arc of its own blade. She sidestepped, a nearly imperceptible blur of motion, and lunged forward, pressing the offense.

There was no anger fueling her strikes, no caged wolf howling in the dark recesses of her mind as it had so many times before. There was only him and her, right and left, gift and curse, and the legacy of former First Swords that blessed the arms of each.

She thrust with a savage finesse that was uniquely her own; the grace of Syrio Forel’s shade coupled with the unacknowledged barbarism of a Hound left to die. A skillful block rebuffed the point, and a flick of Qarro’s wrist diverted No One’s sword just long enough for him to pivot and slash with a speed that nearly left the ghoul with a severed ear.

A slim shoulder dropped, and No One pitched forward beneath the sharp steel whistling through the air above her head, artfully pulling the edge of her blade across the agile Braavosi’s leather belt as a quick backstep spared him a split midsection. A drop and a roll landed the ghoul behind him, and a hasty lift of Qarro’s sword across the back of his neck rebuked the piercing she had attempted to drive through his nape. The First Sword turned to confront her as her as her rapier slid aside, his slender form sideface, his expression inscrutable.

There would be no more holding back.

Steel rang across the Sealord’s grounds as they continued to duel, the usual crowd of curious nobles and enthusiastic young bravos gathering on the palace veranda and atop the Seawall overlooking the lush courtyard. No One could see the glint of coins in a few hands as the wealthy made their wagers, counting silver for each strike landed, and also the number rebuffed by both combatants.

Her senses were always sharpest when she walked hand-in-hand with the god she served.

Lean, strengthened muscles felt the familiar heat of continual forging as she rained down sharp, deadly blows, her blade parried with an adept precision she couldn’t help but admire, even in the heat of battle. Split-second reactions were no longer enough; the dance between the two had become so exacting that even the slightest misstep caused thin ribbons of red to blossom on their hands and forearms, hesitation’s seeds blooming to add to their gardens of light scars.

Harder and harder she pushed, taking ground as it was slowly, _reluctantly_ , given. A light sheen of sweat broke out across her brow, and a thousand-ricochet ache ran up the length of her arm, yet she would not, _could not_ , relent.

Long moments later, she found her opening.

_Calm as still water._

_Now._

The world around her halted as she seized opportunity, driving her arm forward, the tip of her rapier coming to a halt as it cut through Qarro’s shirt and pressed lightly into the skin of his chest, right over his heart.

…just as she felt the tip of his sword against her throat.

A draw.

There was a collective gasp from the spectators, as both rich and poor suddenly found themselves equals in their incredulity.

Placid grey eyes glanced over at Qarro’s sword. “I lost.” She murmured, same as she always had since their first duel, short years ago.

“As have I.” The First Sword conceded with a sad smile, letting his blade fall as he stepped away from her own. “And now we have finished here, Little Death.” There was an unexpected finality to his words; an undercurrent of farewell that struck the ghoul.

She had only come to tell him that she’d be leaving.

Not to say goodbye.

No One sheathed her sword, inwardly retreating back into the cool, soothing emptiness she carried within herself.

Qarro’s eyes shone as he rested his hand on her shoulder. “You have learned all I can teach you, now.” He said. “You are strong. Quick. All that is missing, is _passion_. And that is something no man can give you – you must find it for yourself, and grasp it, _tightly_ , with both hands. Then, you will be unstoppable.”

“But, there is still so much to learn,” the ghoul asserted, “for both of us. You even said-”

Her protests were cut short with a curt shake of Qarro’s head, as he took each of her hands and held them in his own, gripping them soundly. “These, are ready.” He held on a moment, then released, and pressed a finger to her forehead, tapping gently. “This, is ready.” His hand dropped, clenched into a fist, and he rapped his knuckles against her chest, over her heart. “It is only this, which is lacking.”

“I don’t understand.” No One muttered, disconcerted.

“You will, in time.” Qarro said knowingly. “And when you do, I will be waiting.”

 

**……….**

Thin shears snipped through unruly brown strands, taming them as the ghoul brooded over Qarro’s parting words. For years she’d been waiting for the day she could hold her own against the First Sword, but instead of a celebrated moment of victory, she’d been left with little more than a trite lecture that bordered on insult.

Passion was everything she’d been trained _against_ in service to the Many-Faced God – it was pure emotion; rage, ardor, love, hate, need… even desperation.

Things Arya Stark had once been full of.

Things that needed to stay locked away with her.

She exhaled slowly, as warm fingers that reminded her too quickly of Dany’s ran through the choppy hair at the nape of her neck, clipping it into tidy submission.

That was another thing she’d have to keep in check – her growing desire for the exiled princess.

One week in the Darry household, and already the line between _valar dohaeris_ and simple attraction had been blurred more than once, leaving the No One both frustrated and confused. She remembered what the Wharf King told her, about partaking of a feeling as an outsider, and finding peace and enjoyment in those moments without actually claiming them as her own, but she found that was _impossible_ with Dany– she could be nothing less than fully present with the Targaryen, and Dany’s stubborn refusal to accept No One as her true identity was pushing her dangerously close to the edge of becoming _someone_ again, in the form of Grey.

Then again, maybe that was inevitable, considering both the length and nature of her assignment. She needed some sort of reliability to the role she’d be settling into over the next three years, for Dany’s sake if not her own. Grey was as good as any; better, even, than most, since the princess already had an established level of comfort with her.

She just needed to keep in mind that it was just another name for another person she needed to be for a time –and, once she’d paid her debt, she could incarcerate Grey the same way she had Arya Stark.

It should be easier, the second time around.

A warm cloth across the back of her neck finished the job, and the ghoul paid handsomely for the service rendered before stepping back into the midday bustle of Ragman’s Harbor. She walked the merchant’s planks for a while, stopping at a few storefronts to pick up some things she needed before they set sail in the morning – a new pair of boots, to replace the fine set she’d lost when the Wharf King’s tower collapsed, a few shirts, some silk stitching and bandages – then found herself drawn to an aromatic vendor cart displaying a colorful selection of tea.

Dany liked tea.

A withered old woman with a sharp eye peeked around a hanging strip of dark, drying stalks. “You have discerning taste, ghoul,” she said, gesturing to the black leaves tipped in red that had caught her attention. “That’s _angogon_ , all the way from the isle of New Ghis. Has a sweet burn to it.”

No One’s brow creased as she considered. Sweet would be undoubtedly welcome, but the burn was a risk. “What about that one?” She asked, motioning to a blend of light blue and white leaves.

“ _Daomio_ ,” the crone answered, “very soothing. And this one here,” she pointed to a basket brimming with a purple and black mix, “ _ebrion_ , both from the plains of Lhazar.”

Seeing she had the ghoul’s attention, the old woman wasted no time extolling the virtues of a few more blends – _gienagon_ , a pink bloom with yellow leaves meant to soothe pain; _numio_ , tiny white blossoms that apparently increased vigilance when boiled; and _tomitsos_ , a Norvoshi black tea sweetened with tiny berries.

Unsure which would be favored, she bought some of each. She could give them to Dany while they were out at sea, something to enjoy when supplies were rudimentary and comforts scarce.

Adding the decorative boxes to her satchel of purchases and slinging it over her shoulder, she carried on over the dockside slats, northbound past the Cattery, and into the cluster of taverns that drew landlocked sailors like flies to honey. Though she’d already managed to round up enough sailors to make the trip to Tyrosh and back, their numbers were still painfully few – and for all their good intentions, none of Dany’s Chainbreakers had experience sealing hatches, climbing rigging, or reading nautical maps. It was worth one last sweep, to see if she could round up even one more set of able hands.

Fortune smiled on No One, and in her old stomping grounds of Pynto’s she came across a carpenter who had worked a few voyages as a sawbones under captain Ferraso Antaro, of the _Arbella_. The _Arbella_ had been one of the ships included on the list Dagen had drawn up for her, detailing all of the known allies that the Chainbreakers had collaborated with throughout the years. After some fair negotiating and two steins of ale, the last member of Dany’s makeshift crew was recruited, set for a dawn departure.

It was starting to look as if they might actually manage to get those slaves out of Tyrosh in one piece.

 

………..

 

The sun was setting by the time the ghoul made it back to Purple Harbor, and the house with the red door.

Ever since Grey had satisfied Ser Willem’s perilous trial of loyalty, the dynamics of the entire household had altered drastically where she was concerned. She didn’t know what the old knight told them all about the entire matter, but whatever it was had eased tensions considerably. There were no more suspicious, wary glances cast her way, and a refreshing lack of resentment each time she walked through the door. Luco remained openly in awe of her; just as he had been from the start. Lylah had softened noticeably, making small talk every so often, and had even gone so far as to apologize for ‘the spoon incident’, as it was now commonly referred to as. And Ser Willem himself – he did show signs of chagrin over his actions, even if he never did apologize for them. And he couldn’t, really – to do so would be akin to saying he was unwilling to take extreme measures when it came to Dany’s well-being, and entirely dishonest to all of the choices he’d made over the last two decades.

And that was alright, because Grey understood.

Arya Stark had a father once – a man who had been willing to lay aside the honor he’d spent his entire lifetime cultivating, and name himself a traitor, all in hopes that his daughters may be shown mercy through his sacrifice. Any parent would go to great lengths in the interest of protecting their child.

And although she would have preferred that Ser Willem found an alternate method of measuring her allegiance, she knew that was exactly what he sought the moment he’d walked in to her guest chamber days ago. And she’d chosen to grant him that assurance. A few bruises and a shallow cut were nothing to her, and a small price to pay to give Dany’s family some measure of peace.

The adoptive daughter in question was outside picking one last bag of lemons around the side of the house when Grey made her way up the walk. Dressed in a loose, white peasant blouse and a long, flowing blue skirt that brushed around her ankles every time she took a step, Daenerys was entirely unaware of what a pretty painting she made just then; the pale princess in the dying light. Grey stopped and stared, etching the scene into her mind before quietly stepping into the house and retreating to her transitory abode.

It was a rare gift, to see something truly beautiful. Even a ghoul knew that much.

Reflection grudgingly gave way to responsibility, and Grey took a seat at the table beneath the window with a sigh. Having been unable to hire anyone trustworthy with navigational abilities within the tight timeframe they were operating under, that duty would fall on her shoulders for this initial excursion. As Captain, it was a task Dany would eventually end up taking over, but only after becoming familiar with seafaring maps and nautical instruments - that particular skillset was never included with the royal tutelage she’d received growing up, so Grey would teach her, just as she’d been taught by captain Gyleno on _The Lonely Wind_.

Quick hours passed as the ghoul compared maps and set routes until she was satisfied, and then lifted the stacks of stamped manifest records that made up her secondary undertaking. She had only just started to compare the sums listed when there was a quiet rapping at the door. Unbidden, a grin tugged at Grey’s lips. It had been the same every night since she’d arrived at the house – once Ser Willem and Lylah retired, Dany would show up at the door to her room with a little ceramic pot of tea and two mugs. The ghoul would invite her in, and they would drink and chat long into the night, until violet eyes grew heavy, and she’d kiss Grey’s cheek and take her leave.

One evening, it had almost ended differently. Curious about the country her ancestors had ruled, but she herself had never known, Dany had questioned her about the North, asking if it was true that the wolves there grew as tall as destriers, and that children slid on rivers of solid ice when they went out to play. It had taken Grey aback, and struck a piece of her heart so deeply she’d nearly asked Dany to stay after she’d answered, desperate to bury herself in the Chainbreaker’s arms until she could no longer remember the cold had ever existed.

A solid bite to the tongue and she’d managed to remain silent, and Daenerys had never been the wiser.

Grey stood up, a few strides bringing her to the door. She opened it for the silver princess, stepping aside and bowing her head in welcome. “Couldn’t sleep?” she asked, as if she didn’t already know the answer.

“No.” Dany said, the hint of a blush on her pale cheeks. “As silly as it sounds, I’m nervous. About tomorrow.”

Grey gave a slight shake of her head. “It doesn’t sound silly.” She made her way back across the room with Dany, cleared a space on the cluttered table she’d been graphing at, and pulled out a chair for her. “It’s not every day a woman goes to sleep a lady of Purple Harbor, and wakes up as captain of one of the finest ships the Arsenal has ever built.”

Dany sat down and looked up at Grey, questioning, as the ghoul reclaimed her seat in front of a small stack of charts. “Do you really think so? That my ship is worthy of such estimation?”

“Well, I can’t claim to have seen every ship in the world, or even every ship in Braavos. But even so, I do believe your ship is nothing short of masterful, Daenerys.”

Truer words had never been spoken.

Named for the cobalt dragon her roguish ancestor prince Daeron Targaryen had ridden to the rescue of Lord Hightower during the famous Battle of the Honeywine, _The Tessarion_ was a ship every bit as magnificent as its namesake. With rich azure sails marking it as the Blue Queen reborn, _The Tessarion_ had been expertly crafted by the greatest shipwrights in the free city. Customized to Dany’s specifications, it included a cargo hold that was just as suited to comfortably carrying passengers as it was crates, with hammocks that could be hung or stored away with ease. Its high sides would protect it from the attacks of smaller craft, but, if a larger vessel _did_ force engagement, everyone on board would be well-equipped to repel the raiders courtesy of a small armory built into the First Mate’s cabin, which Grey would occupy throughout her tenure with Dany. Cleverly crafted into the plans were floors with false bottoms, both to serve as extra storage space, and to provide a required level of stealth when contending with certain port authorities and inspectors.

Topping it all off, was a great dragon serving as the figurehead on the bow, as fierce and majestic as the very seas it would part.

Relief and gratitude mingled beautifully across Dany’s features as she took Grey at her word.

“Well,” Dany said, lifting the pot of steaming tea and pouring them each a cup, “we both know why I’m still awake.” She gestured to the haphazard piles of parchments littering the tabletop. “Now tell me what’s keeping you up.”

The ghoul spoke her thanks for the cup set in front of her, and pulled a few sheets from the top of one of the shorter stacks in answer. “These,” she turned the parchments around, and then slid them across the table to Dany, “are some cargo manifests, listing the quantity and value of goods imported across the free cities over the last few years. I’m studying them, to get a feel for the wares that will turn the most profit per season in every destination port you may choose to sail into.” She fingered the outline of the Sea of Myrth on a faded map of Essos that lay beneath her sheafs. “Because we’re so strapped for time on this first run to Tyrosh, we’re going in as charlatans. But that will only work once; we can’t have _The Tessarion_ gaining a reputation as a crew of swindlers. Also,” she took a drink of her tea, looking at Dany over the rim of the mug, “you made a tidy fortune selling those two dragon eggs. But nearly half of it was spent on acquiring your ship. The rest will be exhausted quickly, taking care of the people you want to save, if these voyages can’t become self-sustaining.” Slate eyes glanced down, then back up again. “I won’t see you left with nothing.”

“Grey,” Dany said softly, her eyes betraying guileless vulnerability, “you don’t have to- ”

“ _Valar dohaeris_ , Dany.” The assassin said, curtailing her protest. “I do.” A pause. “I want to.”

“Sometimes, I don’t understand.” Dany said, a thin crease marking her brow.

“Understand what?” Grey asked.

Dany stared down into her cup, as if trying to discern an answer hidden in her tea leaves. “Sometimes I don’t understand, how someone who has so much to give, can choose to spend their life serving only death.”

There was no accusation in Dany’s tone, and no hidden unkindness in her words. Had there been, the ghoul could have more easily cast them aside, and redirected the conversation as was her instinct. But instead, they held fast to her, gently gripping until Dany’s earnest was rightfully repaid in kind.

“For some,” Grey said quietly, “everything they ever loved now rests in Death’s hands. And the only choice left is to make some kind of peace with the god who holds them.”

“But is that really the only choice?” Dany asked, reaching a hand across the table to rest over Grey’s. “What about honoring those we’ve lost by _living_?”

“I live, Dany. Every single day.”

“Have you?” She asked, still gentle. “Have you really lived, Grey? How old were you when you joined the Faceless Men?”

“Old enough. It was what I wanted. What I _chose_.”

“What drove you to them…?” Purple orbs probed well-maintained defenses, searching. “Who were you, before they took it all away?”

_Arya. Little Sister. Horseface. Underfoot. Arry. Weasel. Nan. Squab. Salty._

Granite eyes hardened under Dany’s tender assault. “I was _nothing_ before I joined the Faceless Men, Daenerys. Useless. Weak. A failure.” A blink, and in that flash of dark the ghoul could see the broken, mangled bodies of her kin, each one she was either too small or too slow to save. “If I had been then, what I am now…” her voice trailed off, as old ghosts were trampled once more, “…I owe _everything_ to the House of Black and White.” She finished sternly.

“Whoever you were,” Dany said, resolute as Grey had ever seen her, “you were never _nothing_.”

There was something within Dany that rose up to the surface as she spoke just then, something born of thunder and battle and cut from steel, demanding deference.

Blood called to blood, and Grey could not help but acquiesce.

“I’m sorry,” the ghoul said smoothly, “some things are better left unsaid, and I spoke out of turn.”

Slowly Dany rose from her chair, circling around the table until she stood in front of Grey’s partially reclined frame. “And I wish _more_ would be said, out of turn or otherwise. But I can wait.” She leaned down and kissed the killer’s cheek, letting her lips linger a moment. “Goodnight, Grey.”

_Stay._

“Goodnight, Dany.”

Another bite, and Dany was still never the wiser.

 

**………..**

 

Grey was already waiting at the Purple Harbor docks beside _The Tessarion_ long before Dany and the rest of the crew showed up. Though she had full confidence in the shipwrights who built the mighty carrack, she had still wanted the opportunity to inspect it for herself once more before they set off.

After all, no one else was better qualified to check for any possible manner of sabotage.

The sailors arrived at first light, and set to preparing the ship for departure. Dockhands turned up shortly after, and started loading barrels of what was falsely believed to be Arbor wine into the hold. As the stamped wooden drums were being rolled up the gangplank, a tiny figure appeared out of the morning mist, looking up at the ghoul from the pier.

“Changed your mind, then?” Grey called down to the skinny wharf rat.

Rasco nodded. “I did.” He lifted a sack from his shoulder and held it up. “I’m ready to go, if you’ll still have me.”

“It’s a chance at a whole new life, Rasco. Work as a cabin boy for a few years, and you’ll end up learning everything there is to know about ships and sailing. Might even become a captain yourself one day.” She looked down at him from the side of the deck, assessing. “Are you sure this is what you want?”

The boy didn’t hesitate. “I am.”

Grey motioned for him to climb aboard. “Then get up here, and make yourself useful. Dany will be here any minute.”

A few more barrels and crates loaded, and Grey’s declaration became prophecy fulfilled as Dany, Lylah, and Ser Willem made their way through the fog to the great ship that would sail the exiled dragon away to a whole new life. She finished tying down the casks she’d been stacking, then disembarked to give Daenerys a status report.

“How long until we’re ready?” Dany asked, eyes shining.

“Only a few minutes more.” Grey answered. “We’ve got a solid crew here. What we lack in numbers, we make up for in efficiency.”

Sensing a farewell was needed between Dany and Ser Willem, she reached out to take both Dany and Lylah’s bags. “Let me set these in your quarters. Lylah, maybe you can help me make sure nothing is amiss for either of you before we weigh anchor?”

“Of course,” the handmaid gave a brisk nod, immediately understanding the ghoul’s intentions and stepping in line behind her as they climbed the gangplank.

Grey led Lylah across the deck and down the stairs, into the forecastle where the cabins and living quarters were stationed. “I think this one is yours.” She said, opening the door to a tidy unit and setting Lylah’s belongings down inside.

“It is.” The Volantene affirmed, taking in her new home. “Thank you, Grey.”

Grey tilted her head in acknowledgement. “I’m just going to bring Dany’s things to the Captain’s cabin, then I’ll be topside if you need anything.”

Once she’d tended to Dany’s baggage, she climbed back up to the deck, barking out a few last minute orders. Rasco had wasted no time, and was already climbing the rigging up to the crow’s nest. If the boy became comfortable enough working at that height, he’d be even more of an asset than she’d first anticipated.

A sharp whistle from below caught her attention, and she looked over the side of _The Tessarion_ to see Ser Willem down on the dock with Dany, gesturing for her to join them. She looked back up, calling out a cautionary warning to Rasco, then made her way back down the ramp to the old knight and his former charge.

“Grey,” Ser Willem said, gruff as ever despite the air of sadness that surrounded him, “I know we got off to a rough start. But,” he reached out and took her left hand into his own much larger ones, “take care of her.” He said simply, glancing over at Dany, as gentle as a grizzly could ever be in that instant. “Keep them both safe.”

_I didn’t realize he cared so deeply about Lylah as well._

Grey rested her scarred right hand on top of his, and met his eyes, solemn. “I will, Ser Willem. I swear it.”

With a grunt her oath was accepted, and the former master-at-arms turned his attention back to Dany. “Take this with you,” he said, placing a small, tightly bound box into the princess’ hands. “Don’t open it for a while. Keep it tucked away, and wait until a day comes when you need to be reminded of who you really are. Then, take a look, and you’ll remember.”

Grey stepped away as Dany wrapped her arms around the broad man’s shoulders, hugging him tightly as she blinked back tears.

They’d each said all they needed to.

It was time to go.


	22. Death and Life

After three days at sea, a princess died while a captain rose.

Dany woke with the pale rays of the eastern sun, muted by the thick mist that enveloped _The Tessarion_ each morning. She closed her eyes, stilling herself beneath the covers, until she could feel the gentle pull of the ship cleaving through the Narrow Sea as it pushed forward, driven by the last of the midnight winds.

_One day closer to Tyrosh_.

Satisfied with the blessing of calm waters and steady speed, Dany got up and knelt down beside the bed, tugging open one of the heavy wooden drawers that had been built directly into its frame. Gone were the many fine dresses and trinkets that had so often adorned her as a lady of Braavos; replaced instead by a more practical selection of britches, linen shirts and expertly stitched blouses with loose, billowing sleeves that cuffed snugly around the wrist. It was one of those particular blouses she selected, along with a pair of black trousers and charcoal leather boots, to play her role for the day.

None of the crew aside from Grey and her Chainbreakers knew how truly inexperienced she was. With any luck, at least _looking_ the part would help serve to keep it that way.

“My lady?” There was a soft rapping at the door.

Dany pulled the blouse over her head, and started lacing it up at the chest. “It’s open. Come in, Lylah.”

The smooth click of a well-oiled latch, and her handmaid stepped into the elegant cabin. “Forgive me for saying so, my lady, but do you really think it wise to leave your door unlocked like that?” The Volantene looked over her shoulder, dark eyes glancing over the entryway in question. “Half the men on this ship,” she shook her head, “half of them look as if they’d kill their own mothers. The other half, they still look as if they’d kill her – but only _after_ raping her first.”

“They’re _sailors_ , Lylah,” Dany said with the barest hint of a grin. “Most of them have the names of their mothers tattooed across their backsides. Besides, none of them would be fool enough to try anything with Grey aboard.”

“Grey’s cabin is all the way on the other side of the ship, my lady. Unless…?” A raised eyebrow finished the question for her.

Dany felt a warmth rise up and tint her cheeks as she pulled on her boots. “No, Lylah, I am not bedding Grey.”

“Are you sure?” Her handmaid asked with a smirk. “Because the other night, I thought that-”

“It wasn’t.” Dany quickly corrected her.

Though it easily could have been.

The first night on board _The Tessarion_ had been cold in a way Dany had never experienced before, having spent her life sheltered by the moderate coastal climate of Braavos. Once the sun had set, the temperature had dropped like a stone, leaving her shivering on deck once the crew had retired to their bunks and hammocks down below. She had been heading aftward, fully intending to follow their fine example and retreat to her cabin, when she saw a lone figure standing at the stern, staring intently at the sky.

_‘Grey?’_

The ghoul didn’t answer, and Dany had been about to call out again when she felt an icy prick on her cheek, and then another on her nose. Curious, she looked up and saw dozens of tiny white assailants swirling around her, crystalline under the argent half-moon.

_Snow._

She’d heard of it, of course, from the many Maesters and tutors she’d been instructed by throughout the years, and she even thought she’d seen some, once, when Braavos had endured a few weeks of uncharacteristically bitter chill – but no.

Whatever it was she had seen in the dense Braavosi fog, it hadn’t been half as beautiful.

Wordlessly, she climbed up the wooden steps, and strode past the helm, until she came up behind Grey.

The assassin turned to face her then, her usually sharp features softened by a momentary vulnerability. _‘Winter is coming,’_ she said quietly, tilting her head toward the unseen western shore.

_‘Is it?’_ Dany asked, abashed. _‘I’ve… only read about such things.’_

Grey gave a small nod and shrugged her cloak off, draping it across Dany’s shoulders as smoothly as if she’d been doing it her entire life. _‘It is,’_ she assured, glancing down at the dark water trailing behind the carrack. _‘About an hour ago, we passed through a few thin, broken sheets of ice. They managed to drift this far south, all the way from the shores of the North.’_

_‘From your home.’_ Dany said, gratefully burrowing into the killer’s cloak, taking in her scent as well as her lingering heat.

_‘No,’_ Grey said, after a long moment. _‘Not anymore. Not for a long time.’_

She could hear it in her voice then, a faint echo of sorrow, like a shattered sword that had been caught for years in her throat. Dany wanted to question, to reach, to pull, to mend – but she knew Grey wouldn’t let her; that she’d snarl and jerk or buck and thrash, and she feared clumsily rending such a well-formed scar of grief.

_‘Then Westeros truly holds nothing for either one of us.’_ She’d said instead, resolute.

_‘It doesn’t.’_ Grey agreed, stepping in behind Dany and slipping her arms around the silver captain’s waist.

They stood like that for some time, watching the leagues pass behind them, as preludes of winter too fragile to stick flurried around them. Cool lips had pressed to her neck, holding fast unlike the driving, fickle snow, until she turned to warm them with her own.

And then the cold had fallen away completely, and the two were stumbling down the stairs to Dany’s cabin, breathless and panting. They’d barely managed to shut the door behind them before Grey was on her, fingers deftly unbuttoning, and teeth expertly nipping between kisses that left her with a want that consumed her, until she began to ache with it.

It was only when the assassin had started to unlace Dany’s bodice that she began to hesitate.

_‘What’s wrong?’_ Dany asked, leaning up to kiss the curve of Grey’s bottom lip as she unclasped the ghoul’s belt.

Smoky eyes found her own, turbulent and widening. _‘This is not valar dohaeris,’_ she said.

_‘No,’_ Dany confirmed, resting a hand to Grey’s cheek. _‘It is not.’_

_‘This is not valar dohaeris,’_ she repeated, as if in disbelief, releasing the satin ribbon she’d been loosening.

Clearly unnerved for reasons Dany could only guess at, Grey bowed her head and whispered a husked apology, then left the cabin as quickly as if the Many-Faced God himself had commanded it.

It wasn’t until the next morning that she’d learned that Lylah had stepped out on to the deck for a breath of fresh air the night before, and witnessed the entire display right up until the closing of her cabin door.

“Well, breakfast will be served in a few minutes,” Lylah said, snapping Dany back to the present. “Are you sure you want to eat down below with the men? I’m more than happy to bring you something here.”

“No,” Dany said, “but thank you. For now at least, they are my crew – I should know the men who have chosen to follow me, and let them know me. What we’re doing is never without risk, and I won’t ask them to possibly die for a stranger.”

Lylah studied her a moment, incredulous, as if she was seeing her for the very first time. “That’s… very wise, my lady.”

“It’s funny,” Dany said, as much to herself as to Lylah, “all of my life I lived with a man who called himself a king. Yet it was not until I met an assassin that I began to learn what it means to rule.”

 

**………**

 

As Dany sat to break her fast, she thanked any god who may have been listening.

Every time her handmaid served a meal, Danaerys became acutely aware of her own sad lack of ability in any kitchen. Despite her best efforts, she had a tendency to ruin even the simplest of dishes, and had the crew of _The Tessarion_ been dependent on her culinary skills to see them through their journey, they would have all been destined to die slow, miserable deaths, with inedible chunks of mystery meat clutched between their twitching, emaciated fingers.

Lylah’s presence would spare all that grim fate.

In nothing more than a rudimentary galley kitchen equipped with the barest of essentials, the Volantene had managed to cobble together a veritable feast by seafaring standards. There was a relatively crisp salad, tossed with all that remained of their unspoiled vegetables, and topped with a rich oil, salt, pepper, and a few slices of lemon. Strips of salted pork tinged with a flavorful, heated red spice accompanied the greens, squaring the meal alongside thin filets of fresh, raw fish, paired with a dark vinegar. Large jugs of both water and ale rounded out the offerings, and once allotted portions were passed around, none were left unsated.

None, except for the two who were conspicuously absent.

“Lylah,” Dany asked, once the sailors had taken their leave to tend to their duties, “have you seen Grey and Rasco?” Though the former came and went as she pleased, Dany had quickly learned that just the mere thought of food was enough to bring the cabin boy running. She found it hard to believe the lad would sleep through a morning repast.

“I haven’t, my lady,” Lylah said, gathering up and stacking the cleared wooden plates, then setting them into a bucket of seawater to rinse. “But then again,” she gestured to her tiny kingdom of rations and cutlery, “I haven’t strayed far from my post. They’re most likely taking care of something topside.”

Dany stood up and pulled her handmaid into a tight hug, the same way she always did when she was a little girl. “Thank you, Lylah.”

Lylah blinked in surprise, returning the embrace. “Whatever for?” She asked.

“For coming with me,” Dany said, “when you didn’t have to. For believing in me, when I’ve done nothing to earn your faith. For taking care of all of us here. And just… for everything.”

“Oh sweet child,” the handmaid said, invoking the endearment she’d used throughout Dany’s entire childhood, “I will _always_ follow you, wherever you may go. No matter how far, no matter how unexpected. Never doubt that.” She smoothed Dany’s back, and kissed her cheek. “Besides,” she neatly sliced through the dense layers of emotion that were surfacing between them with a playful wink, “someone has to keep you from getting into any more trouble, now that you’re out in the world on your own.”

Dany laughed. “You say that as if I’ve already found some share of it.”

Lylah just gave her a knowing look. “You’re captaining a ship that is set to free slaves throughout all of the free cities of Essos. You have a ghoul under your command, thanks to either a moment of sheer brilliance or complete insanity, who you are obviously becoming romantically entangled with – I still don’t know what you’re thinking with that one, by the way - and, oh yes, just to make sure we have _both_ sides of the Narrow Sea covered, you are also carrying the true heir to Westeros, whose father is as mad as his own sire was, and will stop at nothing to hunt both you and the child down, should he ever reclaim the Iron Throne.” She let out a heavy sigh. “If that is not trouble, my lady, I don’t know what is.”

Sometimes Dany hated it when Lylah was right.

 

**……..**

 

Grey had missed breakfast, due to Rasco losing his supper.

It was the violent retching that had caught Dany’s attention first, as she climbed up on to the deck. There, starboard side near the bow, she saw her cabin boy hanging over the side of _The Tessarion_ , vomiting as Grey held him up by the back of his belt.

“Good morning Captain,” Grey greeted her with lazy grin, tightening her grip as Rasco doubled over for another round.

Commanding footsteps echoed across freshly swabbed planks, until Dany reached the duo. “What happened?” she asked, looking at Rasco with no small measure of concern. “Did he get seasick?”

“You hear that, Rasco?” Grey called out, jostling his thin frame with a few sharp tugs on his belt. “The Captain is worried about you.” She paused a moment, as the boy fell limp with a pitiful groan. “Daenerys Targaryen, the princess Chainbreaker who set you free, thinks you may have gotten seasick.” She yanked the belt again, jolting the former wharf rat. “Are you seasick, Rasco?”

“To hell with you, ghoul!” The boy’s shoulders hitched as he started to cough. “Just let me die in peace!”

Grey smirked. “You’re not going to die, Rasco.” She hauled him back over the side, and dropped him on to the deck in an unceremonious heap. “Though you may wish you had, for a while.”

The cabin boy lay in a sprawl, pale and shivering. Grey reached down and lifted a bucket, then dowsed him with cold water as he sputtered and cursed. “Not in front of the Captain!” he flailed pathetically. “Let a man have his dignity!”

Grey was unmoved. “Tell our good Captain why you missed breakfast this morning, Rasco.”

Rasco rubbed water from his eyes. “I wasn’t hungry.”

Another splash from the bucket, followed by another wave of curses that began to prove Rasco’s time at sea like nothing else could. “Tell our good Captain why you missed breakfast this morning, Rasco.” Grey repeated.

The boy sighed, drenched and resigned. “They made me drink too much rum,” he mumbled.

“What’s that?” Dany watched as Grey knelt down beside the boy’s prone form. “The other sailors _made_ you drink all that rum?” She clucked her tongue. “That’s downright cruel.” Slate eyes full of mischief caught Dany’s own. “Seems we have no choice, Captain. What do you think? Flogging? Keelhauling? Maybe have a few of them walk the plank?”

Carefully masking her amusement, Dany knelt down on the other side of Rasco, opposite Grey. “We haven’t been at sea nearly long enough to make a keelhaul really worth it. And I don’t have enough men to spare any for the plank. A flogging, though – that has merit.”

Rasco’s eyes widened. “Wait, wait, just… just who do you plan to flog?”

Dany raised an eyebrow, “why, all of the men who forced so much drink down your throat. You don’t really think I’d allow you to be treated so savagely aboard my ship, do you?”

Dark, bloodshot eyes closed, and Rasco slumped for a quiet moment. “Maybe,” he said, small and hesitant, “maybe, it wasn’t entirely like that.”

“No?” Dany asked, straining to keep her expression neutral. “Maybe you can tell me what it _was_ like?”

“One of the riggers offered me a shot of rum to try last night, out of his cut.” Rasco stared intently at the woodgrain beneath him. “I felt alright after, so, I thought maybe I could have a few more rounds, with the rest of the crew.”

“So you siphoned some straight from the barrel, and thought yourself quite a man as you drank an entire mug down.” Grey finished coolly.

The cabin boy scowled. “I just needed to keep up, was all.”

Dany felt for the boy. He just wanted acceptance, really. To prove he belonged.

She knew she couldn’t appear to coddle him, though. It would only deflate him further.

“Dry yourself off, and haul yourself back to your damned hammock.” Dany said gruffly, more for the benefit of anyone else who may be listening than out of any real anger. “Drink as much water as you can bear, and get some sleep. You’re on lookout tonight; I need you steady enough to climb up to the Crow’s Nest.”

Rasco looked up at her gratefully, and gave an affirmative nod. “I’ll be ready by sundown, you have my word. Lots of water. As you say, Captain.” He stood up on wobbly legs, and carefully made his way below decks, swaying despite the placid waters.

“Well,” Dany said to her partner in childish torment after Rasco was out of earshot, “I suppose that was bound to happen sooner or later.”

“I found him on the floor this morning,” Grey said, rising to her feet and offering Dany a hand up. “Passed out near the provisions. I thought I’d bring him topside and try to sober him up a little before Lylah - and maybe one of her damn _spoons_ \- found him.”

“Poor Lylah’s never going to live that down, is she?” Dany said, snickering as she took Grey’s hand. “She set aside some breakfast for you, if you’re hungry.”

Something akin to a mild form of surprise played across the ghoul’s face. “She did? I… after, maybe.” She said reticently. “For now, I thought we should look over the charts, see if you can maybe pinpoint where we’re at.”

Over the last two days, Grey had started teaching Dany how to read the sea, and establish their general position on it, along with how they needed to move to reach their destination. There was a logic to it all that Dany had been picking up on quickly, though she knew the some of the equations used to calculate speed and distance were going to take some extra effort on her part. Though she was capable with sums, she had never particularly enjoyed them.

“Of course.” She said, leading the assassin back to her cabin. “I updated the graph last night, but didn’t run the formulas yet this morning.”

“That’s alright.” Grey opened the door, then followed Dany in. “We’ve had fair winds and mild waters. Dagen’s proving to be a stable hand at the wheel; there shouldn’t be much change.”

A large, dark walnut desk in Dany’s quarters, dovetailed directly into the sturdy deck of The Tessarion itself, served as the vessel’s navigational heart. Thick maps were rolled out on its surface, edges creased and torn from previous good years of service, and over the faded ink that depicted southern Westeros was a small, rectangular silver plate, etched with markings denoting the four corners of the world’s winds, with a pointed lodestone sitting right in the centre.

_‘The stone will always point north, toward **Aeksio** ,’_ Grey had told her, referring to the great constellation that guided all eastern sailors. _‘During the day, you can use it to gauge the direction you’re headed, and make sure you haven’t drifted off course.’_

The lodestone was in the exact same position it had been in when she’d gone to bed the night before. _The Tessarion_ held true.

Grey took a look at the updates Dany had made, and gave an approving nod. “You’re doing well.”

“Thank you.” Dany looked across the desk at the assassin. “I’ve had excellent instruction.”

Grey shrugged off the compliment, while shuffling her left foot – a sure sign, Dany knew, that she was pleased beneath her reservation. “So,” the ghoul said, clearing her throat and waving her hand over the map, “about where do you place us?”

“Hmm.” Dany looked over her charts carefully, then studied the map. “With our estimated rate of speed, I’d say we’re right about,” she pressed her fingertip down on the cobalt-streaked parchment representing the Narrow Sea, right between the eastern plains of Andalos and Claw Isle, “here.”

“Exactly.” Grey confirmed. “Which also means,” she continued, pressing a knuckle over a modest island off the coast of Westeros, “that we’ll be passing east of Dragonstone sometime tomorrow morning.”

_Dragonstone. The home of my birth; part of a country I’ve never known._

“Do you want to see it?” Grey asked softly, as if reading her thoughts.

There was only a moment’s hesitation. “No,” Dany said. “Westeros _still_ holds nothing for either of us.”

The captain could see that the reminder of the evening they’d shared at the stern was not lost on Grey.

They still hadn’t talked about it.

“I was thinking.” Grey said evasively, after a tension-filled silence. “I’d like to take you to the armory.”

“The armory? What for?”

“To choose a blade.” She answered. “There are plenty of long hours to fill when you’re out at sea. Some of them would be well spent learning swordplay.” The ghoul grinned wryly. “I’ve not forgotten your sad display with that paring knife, the night we met.”

“Hey!” Dany cried out in her own defense. “I knew exactly what I was doing with that blade, thank you very much.”

“Yes.” The grin remained. “You knew which end to hold, at the very least.”

“Is that any way to speak to your Captain?” Dany asked, as much a thinly-veiled flirtation as a question.

“Well, if you put it that way-”

“Captain!” Dagen bellowed from his post at the wheel, stomping down hard on the planks. “We have a ship approaching!”

Playful asides fell away as Dany and Grey both bolted from the cabin, climbing up to the stern. “Here, Captain,” Dagen said, handing her the bronze Myrish Eye he’d been scanning with. “To the southwest. Orange sails.”

“Could you see any sigils, Dagen?” Dany took the Far-eye and searched the horizon. Sure enough, a ship with billowing orange sails was heading towards them.

“There is an emblem, Captain, but I couldn’t make it out.” The Chainbreaker said.

It didn’t matter much. If it was a Westerosi ship, there was no guarantee Dany herself would be able to identify the banners anyways.

But someone else might be able to.

“Grey,” Dany motioned for the assassin to step in beside her, and handed her the looking glass. “Take a look, tell me what you see.”

Grey lifted the brass cylinder, her brow furrowed. “It looks like a merchant ship,” she said. “Flying Dornish colors.”

_Dorne._

Daenerys felt her heart squeeze in upon itself, and her breath caught in her lungs.

_He knows._

“Dorne?” Dany heard herself say, her tongue thick and graceless in her mouth. “You’re sure?”

Grey nodded. “The wind keeps whipping the banners around, but I’m pretty sure I saw the sun and spear of House Martell.”

_He’s known this whole time._

“-have plenty of merchant ships. They make a good living in trade with most of the free cities.”

Dany heard the words, but they may as well have been spoken in a dead language. They meant nothing to her.

She could almost feel the twisted ghost of her brother against her again; his too-soft hands that knew no tenderness, the rasp of his demands a loathsome imprint on her bruised skin.

_No._

_Never again._

“I see no archers.” Grey concluded. “And the ship itself is too small to even attempt to ram us. I don’t think it’s a threat.”

“Kill them.” Dany breathed.

Grey returned the Myrish Eye to Dagen, her attention falling back on to Daenerys. “Captain?”

_I must have fire in my eyes when I face them, not tears. I am more a dragon than he could ever be._

“ _Valar morghulis_ , Grey.” Her voice was cut from steel, necessity calling upon the assassin’s vow of service.

_“Valar dohaeris.”_ A scarred left hand rested on the hilt of a sword that would turn the entire Narrow Sea red, if need be. “If they try to board _The Tessarion_ ,” the ghoul said, every bit as quietly menacing as the Old Man who’d given her into Dany’s hands, “I’ll kill them all, and burn their ship.”

For long minutes that felt like hours, they watched.

They watched as the smaller vessel advanced, maintaining its northeastern course as _The Tessarion_ continued south.

As it drew closer, Dany could make out tiny figures on the deck, scurrying about like desert ants. Every so often, when the sun broke through the clouds, she thought she could see a telltale glint of steel reflecting on a hip.

Grey remained at her side, motionless aside from a salt wind ruffling her hair. She’d become No One in her vigilance; fierce and terrible and _hers_.

A war waged in Dany’s heart, its drums pounding in her ears.

The Dornish ship drew parallel to _The Tessarion_. Healthy breadth remained between them.

Grey’s flinty stare remained fixed until the desert ship finally passed by, never once deviating from its original course.

Only merchants, after all.

Dany’s blood began to cool, the clash in her veins subsiding. The fearsome draw left her both lightheaded and lead-footed, and it was only a scarred hand that left its post, to press to the small of her back that kept her from stumbling. “Captain,” Grey said evenly, “might I have a word?”

“You may.” Dany said, projecting a command she no longer felt. “Dagen,” she turned to the helmsman, “alert me immediately if you spot _anything_ else.”

 

………

“What was that?” Grey asked, once they were alone.

“I was taking control of a potentially threatening situation.” Dany said.

“Yes.” Grey acknowledged. “That’s exactly what your crew saw, and it’s commendable. But what they saw, and what was _real_ , are two very different things. I’ve never seen you so frightened, Dany. Not even in the House of Black and White.”

Dany knew there was no point in trying to deny it.

The silver captain exhaled slowly as the assassin took a seat across from her, and silently willed her hands to stop trembling. “How much have you heard about my father? The man they called the Mad King?”

“Same as everyone else, more or less.” Was Grey’s guarded reply. “Rumors and stories.” A mindful pause. “He had a penchant for burning men with wildfire.”

“That’s one of the things Ser Willem told us, when we were old enough to understand. He didn’t want me or my brother raised with any illusions about why my father was overthrown; lest history repeat itself. Not that any of his efforts mattered in the end, when it came to Viserys.” She spat the name bitterly, as if it were venom on her lips.

“He’s mad as well, then.” It wasn’t a question.

“Yes. Mad, and deluded. He believes himself to be Aegon the Conqueror reborn, sent to reshape Westeros once again, and secure the future of the Targaryen line.” She emphasized the last point, trusting in the ghoul’s ability to read her.

Grey did not disappoint. “You were to be his wife, then. As was tradition.”

“A second wife, maybe, after his marriage to Arianne Martell. For a long time he remained undecided on that point – there were some days when he could do nothing but fantasize about how much he could possibly receive for my hand in trade. And then there were _other_ days, when he’d spin into a rage if another man so much as looked at me. There was no predicting him.”

“And Ser Willem?”

Dany felt a hot stinging at the corner of her eyes. “Ser Willem,” she said, “went to arrange an alternate option for me. But Viserys found out. And when he did… well, that was one of the days he spun into a rage at the thought of me with another man.” She swallowed down the heavy, burning lump that had lodged itself in her throat as she restrained the agitated memories she’d banished. “And he took it upon himself to ensure I would be ruined for any other possible match.”

“Dany,” Grey said in gentle realization, “are you saying…?”

“Yes.” Dany affirmed. “It happened the morning of the day we met. And when you said that was a Dornish ship approaching, I thought somehow Viserys knew. That somehow he knew I’d commissioned this ship; that I was headed to Tyrosh. And that he’d come, both for me and the child I carry.”


	23. The Heir to a Thousand Eyes

**AN: This chapter delves into a lot of material that is only mentioned in the ASOIAF novels. Some of these events have not yet been confirmed in canon, but until the next novels come out the best we can do is play well with the pieces we are given. There’s also a ‘Starky Twist’ or two included.**

**For my readers who are HBO watchers only, I apologize for any confusion you may experience when reading this.**

**……..**

_‘Most of him has gone into the tree ... He has lived beyond his mortal span, and yet he lingers. For us, for you, for the realms of men. Only a little strength remains in his flesh. He has a thousand eyes and one, but there is much to watch. One day you will know.’_

**……..**

Winter began to descend, and the man once called Brynden Rivers left the tatters of his ancient flesh, passing entirely into the tree that had sustained him for so long.

He became an Old God, given new life in the strong limbs of the weirwood that had cradled him, as all of his knowledge and memories formed rings within the heart tree, marking it for every year of the Three-Eyed Raven’s first life. The Children sang ancient songs in the True Tongue as they carved a face into the ivory bark that served as Brynden’s new skin; a somber countenance that reflected Bloodraven’s nature, with one open eye that bled deep, red sap, and a simple, crooked line that would remain sightless as its twin.

One day, it would be Bran’s face they would chisel into a heart tree. And when the ground was warm and yielding, the Children would sing a different song, and he’d be lifted from the dirt and planted somewhere in the south, to bear witness in place of those who had fallen to the stone and bronze of the First Men so many generations ago.

Such was the fate of a greenseer.

The old magic that had pulsed so vibrantly during the age of heroes had started to wane, and the gift along with it. Once, there had been as many greenseers born as there were weirwoods to embrace them. Now, as the number of Children left to tend and worship grew sparser, so too did the number of those born to join with the Old Gods.

For all Bran knew, he might be the very last. And even he had not been born a _true_ greenseer – his bloodline granted him the ability to leave his skin and inhabit another, but his eyes had been as blue as still waters until the day he ate a bowl of weirwood paste, laced with the lifeblood of Jojen Reed. It wasn’t until he’d returned to his own skin, after his first time slipping into the old sentinel trees, that he’d learned of the sacrifice his friend had made. Horrified, Bran had made himself wretch, desperate to throw up all that he’d unknowingly consumed. But there was nothing left in him; he’d been gone for full days learning how to see, and both the weirwood seeds along with Jojen’s legacy ran hot in his veins.

When he’d broken down into anguished sobs, it was the emerald green eyes of a Reed that shed his tears.

He had never entirely forgiven the Three-Eyed Raven for what he and the Children had done to Jojen. Even as he grew to understand that there had been no other way, that the hour had grown too late, and that there was no one else who could succeed the last greenseer, he remained bitter. It had been bad enough being a cripple, dependent on others to lift and maneuver him, but to know that Jojen had willingly given his life to grant Bran his sight was more than he could bear.

The only way he found he could live with himself, was to spend every waking moment trying to honor Jojen’s sacrifice. So he set aside his grief, locked away his resentment, and buried his indignity. He accepted the shame of his condition without the indulgence of self-pity, and wore the mantle Brynden placed upon him with quiet resignation as he learned everything he could from the man who had once counselled a king.

Brynden had been exceptional from the start. Born of both the blood of the dragon and the First Men, he was gifted with sorcery and bestowed crimson eyes that were meant to see the fates. There had been none like him in centuries, and he’d shown Bran how he fought his calling from the Old Gods for years, deadening himself to their onslaught on his senses in a bid to live as he wished. How he hushed the rustling whispers of the leaves with the clash of steel and the thrum of arrows, and warmed his skin against the cold, beckoning winds in the arms of his lover. How he’d blinded himself to the strange rushing of the rivers, even when he had two eyes to look upon their harried winding. The way he’d bit his tongue when he tasted the pine intended to summon him north, and how he ignored the scent of grass and winter roses when it filled his nostrils, instead burning candles while breathing in musty tomes, until nothing remained but the smell of leather and dust.

Brynden had learned the hard way that destiny would not be denied its due once he was sent to take the Black, and in that regard, at least, he and Bran were equals. Had he not been made a cripple in order to sit the Weirwood Throne, Bran would have denied any persuasion the Old Gods set before him to run south the moment he came of age, to become a knight worthy of his great name.

Instead, he was the heir to a thousand eyes, charged with living through the dark death of the world.

And now, it was time to claim his inheritance.

“How long will I sleep?” Bran asked Leaf as he lay back against Meera, her fur-clad arms enfolding him as thick roots twined around his useless legs.

“Until you have seen all that he saw,” the dappled Child replied, her words like the notes of an ominous song. “With a thousand eyes, and one.”

 _But he lived more than one hundred years_ , Bran thought despairingly, as he looked up at the solemn heart tree of his mentor. It seemed an impossible task, to absorb an entire lifetime’s worth of memories, knowledge and power into his own broken frame. Even with the earth sustaining him in greensleep, it would take years to circle Brynden’s rings.

But years he had, because Jojen had given up his own.

“I’ll be here,” Meera said, running her fingers through his tangled locks. “Hodor, Summer and I – we’ll all be right here with you, waiting.”

Bran felt his chest tighten, and his heart threaten to cave in on itself. Even now, after all he had cost her, Meera was still by his side, fortifying him. He had thought that he loved her once, back when they’d all first arrived at caves - but he’d been just a boy then, excited by chestnut tresses falling over a slim shoulder, and the first awkward flushings of youthful desire. Love had still been an abstract concept to him; a word used to describe the beautiful confusion she sometimes made him feel, but holding no more depth than the shallow surges of affection his inexperienced heart was capable of forging.

What he had come to feel for her over the years that followed, as they’d grown together – _that_ was love, refined and pure, in all its width and breadth.

And it was causing him to hesitate.

“Bran,” Meera said gently, coaxing him through his reluctance, “you have to do this. You’re the only one who can.”

“I know,” he said finally, turning to look at her through verdant eyes that weren’t his own. “Just, promise me you’ll wake me, if anything goes wrong.”

“I promise.” Her grip tightened around him, and he knew she meant it.

Bran gave a small nod of acceptance and lay back, exhaling slowly. He closed his eyes, already picturing the great alabaster roots of Brynden’s heart tree. It would be as easy as slipping into Summer, yet once he was within the branches, he would not be able to return until Brynden released him, or his body was forced from its hibernation.

He lifted his hand, clasping it around Meera’s. “I love you,” he said quietly, speaking the words out loud for the first time.

And then he was gone.

 

………

 

_‘Where am I?’_

He stood, tall and slender, clad in the colors of blood and smoke as he nocked an arrow. A pull, a release as natural as breathing, and down below the ridge a man fell, a bloodied shaft stemming from his throat.

‘ _This was the first Blackfyre Rebellion,_ ’ he heard Brynden’s familiar rasp echo around him. _‘I led the Raven’s Teeth in the Battle of the Redgrass Field, where we killed Daemon Blackfyre and his twin sons.’_

There was a lance of pain as a dagger struck and twisted, and the lithe frame Bran inhabited fell back, a gloved hand clutching the bloodied socket that no longer held an eye. He looked up through the single eye remaining to the spectre of his host, and saw a vicious man with black hair and a close cropped beard. His eyes were dark purple and mean, and he had a face that had never known a true smile.

‘ _My half-brother, Aegor Rivers – Bittersteel, they called him. I took what he had come to think of as his-’_

Bran saw a flash of a woman then, with long, silver-gold hair, and two mismatched eyes – one blue, one green – set in a heart-shaped face. He felt a swell of emotion rise up around him as he looked upon her, and instantly knew that Brynden felt for her as he did for Meera.

_‘-and he took something that was mine, in exchange.’_

Sticky warmth ran down his cheeks and chin, as Bran returned to the pained form of Brynden’s memory.

_‘Perhaps my ghosts are not the best place to start. Easier, maybe, to begin with the history I carry of your own.’_

He blinked his eyes, whole once more, and looked into the godswood of Winterfell. Before the heart tree stood a dark-eyed Stark that the old frosted limbs knew to be a bastard, fiercer than Jon had ever been, slicing branches from the weirwood as he imagined dead dragons falling from the sky.

_‘Brandon Snow. He had hoped that weirwood arrows could kill the dragons under Targaryen command during the conquest. His brother King Torrhen Stark wisely chose to kneel, instead.’_

Bran felt a gentle tug, and he slipped across the banded rings of recollection, until he was looking through a pair of the thousand eyes that had once served Brynden. Dark wings stretched out on either side of him as he soared, and he looked down upon a man with the stern face of his father, though time had etched him with lines Eddard Stark had never lived long enough to acquire. Lesser nobles flanked the grey-haired patriarch of the North as they rode towards the Red Keep, banners rippling in the southern winds.

 _‘Lord Rickard Stark,’_ Brynden’s shade said gravely, _‘arriving to answer for Lord Brandon’s crime of challenging Rhaegar Targaryen upon the disappearance of Lady Lyanna.’_

The black wings that carried him over the crosswinds tilted and Bran turned with the raven, settling to land on a ledge atop the White Sword Tower. Time shifted, and Bran saw the sun move across the sky through the sharp eyes of the bird, until screams of agony sundered the afternoon calm.

_‘You know how that ended.’_

Bran squeezed his eyes shut, until the grisly wailing finally stopped, and he felt himself drifting away once more.

When he opened them again, he was back in godswood of Winterfell, with his father.

A young man, not much older than himself, Lord Eddard cradled Ice as he leaned back against the heart tree, sliding an oiled cloth down the length of the blade. His shoulders were hunched, and every so often they shook a little, as the Quiet Wolf struggled to cage his grief.

_‘He never wanted to be the Lord of Winterfell, you know. And though he was a better man than his brother, even till his last day he was haunted by the thought that everything he had, and everything he had come to love, was only his because Brandon had died.’_

_‘Father,’_ Bran whispered, aching to reach across time.

_‘But it was the death of his sister Lyanna, and the oath he swore her that always served the greatest threat to his family.’_

Youth melted away, and he saw his father again, older now, staring deep into the inky pool of the godswood. His mother stood beside him, eyes ablaze, and a telltale swell to her stomach.

 _‘Who was she?’_ He heard her ask, her voice a heated, strangled thing. _‘I deserve to know at least that much!’_

Bran needed no explanation for the scene that played before him. By the time he was born, most of his mother’s rancor over Jon had subsided into silent bitterness, but there were still evenings when he’d overheard her asking his father the very same question.

 _‘Couldn’t he have just told her the truth?’_ Bran asked, as he watched his father weather the jealous tirade. _‘King Robert never would have known, and she could have loved Jon, maybe, instead of resenting him.’_

_‘I can’t tell you what might have been. Only what was… and what is.’_

The flutter of wings, and Bran was alight again, this time in the body of a plump little sparrow. The bird sat on the cold stone of a windowsill, looking into a dark chamber where a still figure lay under quilted bedsheets. A latch turned, and a crescent of light spilled across the room, revealing a pretty young woman with dark curls holding a cloth and a basin of warm water. She strode across the stone floor with slow, shy steps, and took a seat at the man’s bedside.

_‘Her name is Jeyne Westerling. She became your brother’s wife, for a time.’_

Bran watched as Jeyne pulled the bedcovers back, revealing Robb’s face, along with an angry wound on his chest. With a gentle hand as sure as their mother’s had been, she began to wash the wound.

_‘She loved him, that much is certain. And he found comfort in her, before his end. It is more than some manage to find…’_

Bran tensed as a frigid gust assaulted him, chilling him even through the thick fur of the wolf who served as another remembered set of Bloodraven’s eyes. The beast hunched down behind a frosted brush, and through the dark he saw heavy black boots, gathering and circling. ‘For the watch,’ a strong voice rang out, followed by the sound of tearing and the scent of blood. ‘For the watch,’ another called, and there was a sickening thud and the scrape of steel against bone. A third man stepped forward, then a fourth, until a body collapsed in the snow.

_Jon._

There was a howl, and Bran was pushed into another creature who had served Brynden – an owl with eyes like quicksilver, and its talons wrapped around a knotted branch. He looked into the icy window of Castle Black, and saw Ghost railing against a chamber door. Suddenly, the direwolf stilled, paws pressed against the splintering planks, and enraged crimson eyes morphed into a familiar, sad grey.

Before Bran could look closer and confirm his suspicions, the night burned away like a dark mist. He saw the great blue crystal of the Wall, glittering beneath a sun that provided no warmth. Men in black stood, gathered in front of a pyre that held Jon’s body, as a woman in red prayed over his lifeless corpse, and pressed a kiss to his lips.

 _‘I remember her,’_ Bran said. _‘We saw her once, through a veil of fire. Who is she? What is she doing with Jon?’_

_‘She is a priestess of R’hllor, searching for the savior that was promised. She seeks the future in the flames, much as we seek the past held within the heart trees. There **is** power in her god, but she misinterprets his answer to her prayers.’ _

_‘But what about Jon? Was she able to save him?’_

_‘Time enough to mourn the dead, boy. We still have yet to account for the living.’_

Bran spun, and felt himself being vaulted into a skin that felt remarkably similar to Summer’s. A black muzzle sniffed at rocky ground, as wide, midnight paws padded after a young man with dirty hands and long, unkempt hair. “Here, Shaggydog,” the boy called, turning around to wave at the lumbering beast following along behind him.

 _‘Rickon! He’s alive!’_ Bran exclaimed. _‘So many nights searching, and I could never find him.’_

_‘The heart trees on Skagos have roots twisted in stone. To reach them is a difficult thing that I have yet to teach you. But before that, you must first learn just how far a thousand eyes can see.’_

The smell of salt was thick in the morning fog, as Bran took refuge in a strange bird with a wide, orange bill and webbed feet. The winged retainer stood atop a coil of rope at the end of a pier, in front of a great ship with deep blue sails. A whistle split through the air, and an unfamiliar voice called out, speaking in a foreign tongue. The greenseer watched as two figures started walking up the gangplank – the first of which he’d long ago mourned for dead, along with the rest of his family.

_Arya._

Strong and lean, his wolf’s blood sister wore a blade at her hip, and bore a long scar that curved savagely around her cheek and jaw. Beside her was a beautiful woman with silver hair and a kind smile, who moved with an elegant grace that was entirely at odds with Arya’s confrontational swagger. From his vantage point, Bran couldn’t help but notice that she bore an uncanny resemblance to the woman Brynden had so loved.

 _‘She is the blood of the dragon, just as Shiera was. Just as I was.’_ Bloodraven answered, following the conspicuous trail of Bran’s thoughts. _‘Exiled in the free city of Braavos.’_

 _‘Braavos? So we’re looking all the way across the Narrow Sea, then.’_ The seabird cocked its head as Arya took the silver woman’s hand, guiding her over the ridge that connected the ramp to the deck of the ship itself.

Such a small gesture, and yet it somehow made him long for Meera.

 _‘How long ago did this happen?’_ Bran heard himself ask.

_‘This was one of the last moments I witnessed , before my first life ended.’_

_‘How… long has it been, since I entered into your heart tree?’_ Bran asked, realizing that he had lost sense of time completely. Had it been minutes? Hours? Maybe even weeks, since he’d left Meera?

_‘You fret, yet the young woman is most capable. She has prepared for this.’_

_‘The Long Night is coming.’_ Bran said. _‘I should be there, to help protect her.’_ Though his own body was of little use in the way of combat, Summer and Hodor both were forces to be reckoned with when he slipped into their skins.

While in the greensleep, he was useless to the world outside the heart tree.

A rustle of leaves that almost sounded like a sigh. _‘Your misgivings delay us. Come. There is something else you must learn.’_

Bran was lifted, pulled from the bird and the salt and the sea, as the world flew by him in streaks of color and sound. Then he fell, fast and hard through falling snow, until he landed in the form of a man.

A man who took no breath, thick with congealed meat and ice where blood once flowed.

He looked down at his black hands, and stiffly reached up to feel the coarse fabric of a scarf wrapped around his face.

_Coldhands._

_‘Walk, boy. Make his body your own.’_

_‘Who is he? You never did tell me the first time I asked.’_ Bran said, taking a tight, heavy step forward. It was difficult to move the former night’s watchman; he was both leaden and brittle, and the cold had deadened many of the nerves Bran so easily manipulated when he inhabited a living being.

_‘He was a northman. A ranger in the Night’s Watch, who swore his oath before a heart tree north of the Wall.’_

_Just like Jon did,_ Bran thought sorrowfully.

_‘When he fell, the Others raised him up again, to join their shambling horde. But there is power in a vow made before the old gods, boy. And I was once the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch he served. I was able to break his enthrallment, and bring him into my service.’_

It had been Brynden guiding them to the cave all along, back then. As a thousand eyes around the world watched, dead limbs were given new life as they lifted and fought, saved and killed.

And now they were being bequeathed to him.

 _‘He will hunt, and leave meat and skins at the entrance to the cave,’_ Brynden rasped, ‘ _providing for your companions. I will feel the taint of the Wights in the soil if they draw near – and in that case, you may use his arms for war.’_

Bran heard a snap as he lifted Coldhands’ arm, and pulled his hand into a fist. Though he was cumbersome, he was sturdy.

He would serve.

_‘There is one last gift I shall grant you, before my unfinished work becomes your own.’_

Bran slid from the hulking, unwieldy frame he had become one with, and was back inside Brynden’s heart tree. He slipped downward past the rings he was meant to encircle, and out of a wide root that was buried dark and deep. He was propelled forward, beneath the earth, until he came upon a set of ancient roots that marked his destination as the home he once knew.

Winterfell’s heart tree.

 _‘Why have you brought me here now?’_ Bran asked with a note of vexation. Although he loved looking through the memories held within the tree’s rings, it grieved him to have to look through its eyes and see the Bolton banners draped where proud direwolves once hung.

_‘Look. See.’_

Reluctantly, Bran peered through the eyes of red sap.

Bodies were strewn across the godswood, a macabre tableau of death in all its gruesome glory. Limbs were cleaved, and shards of snapped bone pierced through skin like ivory needles through hide. Necks were twisted at impossible angles, while shields bearing the sigil of the flayed man lay haphazardly, abandoned by the soldiers they’d failed.

Smoke rose across the horizon, and two figures emerged from the primal thicket of oaks, sentinels, and ironwoods that surrounded the sacred sanctuary. One tall, with hair like fire, and a grim resolve that was nothing short of Catelyn Stark reborn. The second, a smaller man with a slender build, and sharp features that ended with a pointed beard on his chin.

_By the gods – Sansa!_

_‘Winterfell has been reclaimed.’_

Bran barely heard his mentor as he watched his eldest sister kneel before the heart tree, bowing her head in a heartfelt prayer of thanks he could hear reverberating through the weirwood.

 _Sansa!_ He tried to call out through a mouth etched for silence. _I’m here! It’s me, Bran!_

Leaves shaped like hands shook and rustled, but no matter how hard Bran tried, he could not make them reach for her. _Sansa!_

“Give the old gods their due if you must, my lady,” he heard the slender man say, “but then we need to return. Word will spread quickly, and many will come to swear fealty to the rightful Lady of Winterfell.”

There were lies in the sharp man. Lies, and lust. To speak before the old gods was to become naked before them, and this man had a darkness in him that didn’t belong anywhere near Sansa.

 _‘Come, boy.’_ Bran felt a tug, and the godswood faded away. _‘There is still much to see and learn.’_


	24. The Wolf Within

The laws of men were held in no regard by the beasts who trampled them.

The Alpha had led her pack south, beyond the vast, stinking city, and deep into the forest. Named for the frightened little man who wore the golden crown, it became hers the moment she stepped on the mossy undergrowth; bequeathed by the savage covenant of the wild, which had always favored the strong. The order of nature paid no heed to the boy who hid in the great crimson towers, shameless, while men who thought themselves lions stalked within the thicket, hunting down prey for him with their weapons of stone and steel.

A toothless boy who could not so much as capture his own supper, yet the humans bowed down before him, and called him ‘King’.

The direwolf was beyond such unwarranted displays of fealty.

Keen golden eyes shone as they looked through the hanging shadows, searching out any potential threat. Satisfied in the surrounding stillness, Nymeria bowed her head, and drank from the rushing brook that cut its way through the Kingswood.

The weeks spent in the forest had served her pack well, both fattening their frames and swelling their numbers. Each night they feasted on the man-king’s game, and when the red soldiers would come, the wolves would feast on them, too. Pups grew strong with the abundance of fresh meat, and more little cousins from the eastern hills crossed the cool, browning plains, drawn in by the sound of triumphant howls and the smell of blood.

They were legion, now.

Yet still, with each passing moon, the alpha grew uneasy.

There was a malevolence riding the winds, a stinging cold that gripped with icy tendrils as if it wanted to slide beneath her skin and peel away all that she was, all that she knew and remembered, one agonizing strip at a time. While faint at first, it had become increasingly persistent, until even her smaller charges felt it, their eyes widening as they whirled and snarled and bit, jagged teeth snapping around the formless adversaries afflicting them.

She knew they could wait no longer. It was time to move even further south, away from the foul wind and the hardening earth.

Her thirst slaked, she rose and waited for the others to follow suit. There was much ground to cover yet, before the great light roused the soldiers who patrolled the expansive roads and kept watch over the frosted fields. Though she did not fear the trifling men in their thin metal coats, their words carried quickly, sounding warning faster than she could silence it – and she had no wish to contend with the flames or vicious snares that would accompany their panic.

The weight of expectation settled comfortably over her as one by one, her little cousins fell into formation, awaiting her command. A lift of her muzzle and one last sniff of the midnight air, and then she gave it with a nimble spin as she launched forward, tearing through the copse that marked the boundary of the Kingswood, and into the wide swath of grasslands that bordered the Reach.

Numbers beyond counting, they moved as one, paws sundering the turf as the army of tooth and claw thundered across the landscape, owning it with as much graceful ferocity as they had the sheltering trees left in their wake. Long miles had stretched out behind them when Nymeria felt a warmth beneath her ruff, and a familiar presence melding within her body, claiming her strength and prowess for its own.

_I’ve missed you, Nym._

The direwolf paused for a moment, enjoying her strange-yet-welcome reunion with the wolf-child who’d imprinted upon her so completely as a pup.

_Where are you?_

Nymeria felt herself scan the terrain, sharp eyes observing for the both of them.

Uncertainty thrummed through her dominant voyager. This land was unexplored territory to both of them.

They would discover it together.

She stepped a paw tentatively forward, and found the motion unhindered. Confident that her companion was growing to understand her intentions and instincts in much the same way she was recognizing the man-words that only she could hear, the alpha continued to lope onward, determined to find a suitable refuge for those who depended on her.

The sky was starting to lighten when she found the first moss covered boulders surrounding the ruins of what had once been a magnificent stronghold at the foothill of the Red Mountains. Old stones, blackened by soot, still held the scent of the fire that had scorched them so long ago, a balm of destruction so potent it overwhelmed any lingering remnants of the lives once lived between the crumbling walls.

_Summerhall_.

The word was an awed whisper that echoed within the direwolf, accompanied by a glimpse of a winged behemoth bearing a tiny, silver rider.

_It belonged to the Targaryens, once. Before it was burnt down._

Nymeria felt a surge of affection, and wondered how her two-legged soulmate could be so enamored with things that were long gone.

_Maester Luwin told us about it, long ago._

A yearning, then, much like the alpha herself felt when remembering the warm hearth she and her littermates shared when she was small and new to the world. Their mutual aching overlapped for an instant, binding them both in the buried grief they carried, while so rarely acknowledging.

There was no time for such indulgences.

Snorting and shaking her head, Nymeria surveyed their dilapidated surroundings. Though some were near collapse, the walls were still thick and wide, and would provide reasonable cover from the prying eyes of men. The direwolf threw back her head and let out a few sharp barks, signalling for her pack to gather and take rest amidst the debris.

As her charges began to settle, the former wolves of Winterfell padded over discolored rock, scouting the perimeter of the abandoned castle. Heavy rains had washed away any trace of the last uninvited guests the keep had hosted, whether they had been man or beast, and there was no sign of wear in the foliage marking a pathway.

The land didn’t hold the sour stench of a curse, yet it seemed to be avoided as if dark magic had seeped into its soil. It would serve as a comfortable den, so long as the foul wind couldn’t find it.

Moving beyond the brush, Nymeria and the wolf-child started to climb up the western slope of the Red Mountains, hoping to gain a vantage point that would reveal just how wide a berth the ruins were given. A slanted ledge a few hundred feet up the incline provided exactly that - along with a sight that raised the direwolf’s hackles, and her traveller’s ire.

Down below, dotting the horizon of the southern desert beyond the mountains, an army of sand warriors had gathered, beneath the banner of the three-headed dragon.

And under the pre-dawn sky, they began to march.

 

**…………**

A heavy thud, followed by a lance of pain running down the length of Grey’s arm pulled her from the wolf dream, and onto the floor of her cabin aboard _The Tessarion_. The throbbing ache brought with it clarity, which the assassin used to cut through her disorientation and find her footing as she stood up on the swaying ship. She reached for her sword belt and clasped it around her waist, then stepped into her boots before leaving her bunk, darting up the wooden stairs until she was topside.

The deck was slick with drizzling rain, and a quick look over the starboard side confirmed the rocking waves that had roused the ghoul so abruptly. It was trivial, as far as storms went, just some choppy, wind-blown waters accompanying the tame shower, but the sea was a fickle mistress; her sweet favor taken just as quickly as it was given. Every sailor know it was best to treat any inclement weather as if the worst was yet to come.

“Dany!” Grey called, seeing the captain’s tiny frame beside the wide base of the foremast, “how’s the ballast?”

“It’s fine!” She called back out, after motioning for the last of the riggers to climb back down after fastening the storm sails. “All of the cargo is still secured.”

Grey scanned the surface of the deck, and saw that all of the hatch covers had been locked down, and reinforced with wooden battens. All that was left was to seal off the companionway stairs she’d just climbed up. “Rasco down from lookout?” she called against the gale.

Dany nodded the affirmative. “He’s below decks with the rest of the crew.”

“Alright.” The ghoul looked up at the riggers and blew a sharp whistle, signalling for them to hurry up. “As soon as these guys are down with the rest of the crew, we’ll close off the stairway. Then we’ll take a look at the charts and make sure we haven’t spun off-course.”

“And here I thought _I_ was the Captain?” Dany closed the distance between them, resting her hand on the slender sword hanging from her hip. “What took you so long to find your way up here?” Another gust blew, causing Dany’s brow to crease in puzzlement. “And,” she tugged at one of the loose laces hanging from the collar of Grey’s shirt, “why do you smell like a wet dog?”

“I was…” a flash of rushing grass and ancient stone played behind her eyelids, followed by a swell of rising temper, “dreaming.”

“And just what do servants of the Many-Faced God see when they sleep?” The silver princess asked, raindrops trailing down the soft lines of her face.

_Same thing as when they are awake, my lady. Violence and blood, and a fitting end to those who deserve it most._ Steel eyes followed a drop that slowly curved around Dany’s bottom lip, and she felt a sudden, primal rush that made her wonder if she wasn’t still a beast. _And, sometimes-_

Her less than chivalrous thoughts were disrupted by the crashing of another angry wave, as large as the one that had first woken her. Dany began to stumble sideways, and Grey caught her while quickly steadying her own dubious footing on the planks. “Come on,” the assassin led them both toward the stairwell after the last sailor had finally clambered down. “Let’s close this up, then get you back inside.” She paused a moment, “if you’re in agreement, Captain,” she added deferentially.

Dany supplied no argument.

They bolted down the hatch together, and covered it with heavy canvas that they fastened to the deck. Then, after making sure no one was left unaccounted for topside, they took sanctuary in Dany’s cabin.

Leaning back against the door, Grey pulled her sleeve across her brow, wiping the water from her eyes. “You did well out there,” she said, as Dany took her seat at the great navigational desk. “But you need to be more careful, Dany.”

The dampened beauty looked up at her, fire building in the violet embers of her eyes. “You say that as if I was acting recklessly. This is my ship; those are my men. It’s my responsibility to make sure they’re all prepared to weather any storm.”

Just a little over a week at sea, and the memory of that daunted, hesitant young woman Grey had met that fateful night down at Ragman’s Harbor was already starting to fade away. Whether it was because necessity demanded it, or because the grip of her old life in Braavos was loosening with each passing league, Dany was becoming less that naïve, sheltered noblewoman who’d spent her life in the house with the red door, and more that audacious Targaryen who’d demanded her due from the deadliest man in the House of Black and White.

It both aroused and infuriated the assassin, often in equal measure.

Grey took a seat across from her captain. “I only meant,” she said smoothly, “that it’s dangerous for you up to be up there like that, in your condition, when the waters are so rough.”

“In my condition?” A silver eyebrow quirked. “And just how much experience do you have with women in ‘my condition’, Grey?”

A pause. “Well… my mother had a baby.”

A smirk. “Oh, did she? I never would have guessed.”

_Seven bloody hells._ “One that _wasn’t_ me, I mean,” the ghoul quickly amended, internally cringing.

“So you have a younger brother or sister, then?” Dany asked, taking advantage of the slip in another effort to discern Grey’s past identity.

“A few,” Grey said evasively. “Large families were common in the North.”

Eyes that had flared just moments ago now glimmered with mirth. “I would imagine so, with how cold I’m told it can get once winter descends. Though, there _are_ worse ways to keep warm.”

It was a distraction, with more than a hint of invitation paired along with it. No One recognized all of these word games and their tactics, she had mastered them long ago, and would not allow herself to be deterred. Instead, she reached over the map rolled out across the table, and gently gripped Dany’s bound wrist. “I mean it, Dany. You’re already pushing yourself with the sword,” she ran her thumb along the edge of the supportive, confining fabric, “and you’ve barely slept the last two nights, pouring over those charts. You’re taking care of everyone but yourself.”

“I need to learn all of this, Grey.” Dany said testily, while making no move to pull back her hand.

“You do,” the ghoul agreed, “and you _are_. You don’t need to have it all mastered by the end of your first voyage.”

Dany sighed, the low light of the cabin emphasizing her exhaustion. She turned her hand to lace her fingers with Grey’s. “I’ve already taken you away from your entire life, just to drag you into all of this. The least I can do is learn how to manage things out here, so I don’t have to rely on you for so much.”

“ _Valar dohaeris_ , Dany,” Grey said quietly, lifting their entwined hands to press a kiss to the silver captain’s knuckles. “Right now, you _are_ my life.”

The Targaryen princess started, a faint blush coloring her cheeks. “Perhaps for now,” she said with an almost imperceptible sadness, “but _valar dohaeris_ will not keep you with me forever.”

“None of us are granted forever,” Grey said somberly, the far away, blood-soaked reasons for her induction into Death’s service pressing in at the edge of her mind.

“No, perhaps not,” Dany conceded, “though we _are_ granted more than just the promise of death.” Grey felt the warmth of Dany’s hand tightening its grip on her own. “If you knew, with certainty, that you were blessed by the gods to live out all the years of your lifetime, would you still choose to spend them at the House of Black and White?”

“There is never any certainty, Dany, only-”

“-would you?” She repeated, softly.

Grey’s argument died in her throat under Dany’s tender persistence , her brow furrowing with consternation as she carefully considered the question. Short weeks ago, it wouldn’t have even been a question at all – but that was _before_ the Targaryen Conquest that had turned her world upside down, and currently reigned over her every waking moment.

“I don’t know,” she said honestly. “In truth, even if I did come to want something else, it would be too late. _Valar morghulis_ and _valar dohaeris_ are absolutes to the Faceless Men. And if I became unwilling to uphold those laws,” a shadow crossed her slate eyes, as the candle in the lamp between them flickered, “someone else would.”

Her meaning was not lost on Dany, who looked as if she wanted to push further, then decided against it. Instead, she set her finger on the map before them, just west of the Sea of Myrth. “Unless I’ve completely miscalculated,” she said, “this is where we are now. Which should bring us to Tyrosh-”

“-shortly after sunrise.” Grey finished, already having verified her navigational chart.

“Yes.” Dany caught her eyes. “How long will it take you to run that errand for the Wharf King?”

Necessity required that Grey inform Dany that she’d been given a task to perform while they were in Tyrosh, although she’d kept the details of the assignment to herself. “Shouldn’t be more than a few hours,” she said lightly, hoping to set Dany’s mind at ease. “And I won’t leave until after our guests have been secured in the cargo hold, and I’m certain no one’s sniffing around The Tessarion looking for them.”

“Will you at least tell me where you’re going?” Dany asked, concern etched across her delicate features. “Just in case something happens?”

The ghoul felt a pang of guilt then, sharper than the cut of any blade. Daenerys had enough to worry about, without having to wonder about her safety on top of it all. “You know I can’t do that, Dany,” she said with a slight shake of her head. “And nothing will happen. I’ll be back by sundown, and we’ll leave Tyrosh as planned.”

Before Dany could protest, Grey rose to her feet, and made her way around the blunted angles of the table until she was standing in front of the Chainbreaker. “In the meantime,” she took Dany’s hand and lifted the tired exile to her feet, “you need to get some rest.”

“I can’t. Not while my ship is being tossed around the Narrow Sea like this.”

“Your ship,” Grey said, bowing her head beneath Dany’s arm as she lifted the smaller woman into her arms, and carried her the last few paces across the cabin before setting her down on the bed, “is going to be just fine. As are your crew. You’ll need to learn to sleep through storms much worse than this one, if you want a life at sea.” The ghoul knelt, tugging each of Dany’s boots off. “Your sword,” she tilted her head toward the steel at Dany’s side, reminding her to remove it.

Huffing in a pretense of exasperation, Dany unbuckled her sword belt, and handed the blade to Grey. “This could be considered mutiny, you know.”

“You can put me before a tribunal in the morning if you’d like,” Grey said, hanging the sheathed belt from a wide hook.

“Stay,” Dany countered drowsily, motioning for the assassin to settle in beside her. “And I’ll spare you the justice you so richly deserve.”

“Well, when you put it that way.” A grin that was all too rare, and Grey’s sword belt found a place beside the captain’s. She kicked off her own boots, then curled up behind Dany, draping an arm around her waist.

Daenerys shifted, nestling back against her. She murmured something unintelligible that was lost to the abundant fluff of the feather pillow cradling her head, then her breathing began to even out, slow and steady.

Lulled by the rhythmic rise and fall beneath her arm, Grey closed her eyes, listening to the soft patter of the rain, while picturing the blackened stones of Summerhall, and a dragon banner rippling beneath the desert sky.

 

……….

 

The dragonstone walls of Tyrosh stood a foreboding menace, like a great onyx jaw set to snap at any moment.

No One stood at Dany’s side as they steered into the black maw, the entire Chainbreaker crew of _The Tessarion_ on deck as a veritable troupe of mummers, all prepared to play their respective roles in the fortress stronghold of Old Valyria. Daenerys, under the old blood name of Daniah, was the wealthy Lyseni merchant’s daughter, using the trade connections her father had established in the heart of Westeros to seek her fortunes and strike out on her own. Lylah would remain at her side, to provide translation of the local dialect, dole out the expected bribes to the appropriate port inspectors, and contend with any questions they may have. Sera, a copper-counting Purser if ever there was one, was the iron fist gripping _The Tessarion’s_ purse strings, set to take the harbor market by storm by pushing every known limit of frugality while procuring provisions for the return voyage back to Braavos. Mikel, with a dazzling smile and charm to spare, would become their very own magician, making entire barrels full of cheap red wine disguised as Arbor Gold vanish, while stacks of glittering gold coins appeared in their place. Dagen, swathed in brightly colored silks set to compliment his orange hair, would portray their very own Tyroshi brandy distiller, as perfectly unremarkable in the flamboyant city as a man about to smuggle slaves held in crates throughout the streets needed to be.

And then there was Grey herself.

Scar-split and wearing the only face she’d been granted from the House of Black and White, the ghoul was ready to reprise her role as Dane, the young sellsword bravo who had earned her the nickname of ‘The Gentleman’. Only this time, rather than preserving the time-honored exchange of coin for companionship, Dane would be safeguarding a counterfeit distiller, and preserving the lives of every person he trundled up Dany’s gangplank.

All while wearing an oversized blue velvet hat, plumed with three gaudy red feathers.

“Have I ever mentioned that I hate Tyrosh?” Dane muttered to the spurious, silver-haired merchant’s daughter, scowling.

“I believe the term ‘bunch of bloody peacocks’ may have been used, once or twice,” Dany said, a hint of amusement briefly cutting through a thick layer of apprehension.

For Dany’s first chainbreaking operation, Tyrosh was far from ideal. Renowned for its greed, the former Valyrian outpost was a pillar of the slave trade, and Tyroshi slavers were known for their aggression on both sides of the Narrow Sea. Had it been up to Grey, she would have started Dany out on a milder run to Lys, or maybe even an overland jaunt to Norvos – but as was the case with most things, it was not her decision.

“Well, was I wrong?” The assassin asked, gesturing toward the bustling, self-aggrandizing harbor that stretched out before them with a sweep of her arm.

“You weren’t,” Daenerys confirmed as she rolled her eyes at the sight of an arrogant, blue-haired mercenary strutting down the far end of the pier _The Tessarion_ was anchoring at.

Rough waters had delayed their arrival by a few hours, and it was nearly noon by the time Dane and Dagen were weaving their way through the ostentatious thoroughfare just beyond Tyrosh’s docks. Dane kept his left hand on the pommel of his blade, and his coin pouch strapped to his side, hidden beneath the loose linen of his shirt. With all of its vivid hues and garish pomp, the freehold was a mecca of distraction – the perfect place for aspiring pickpockets to ply their trade.

“This is it,” Dagen said, smoothing the silks wrapped around his chest and glancing up at the large storehouse that loomed over them. “My contact will be waiting in the back. He’s a cautious man. I’ll have to ask that you keep your distance, unless you see something amiss. If you do- ”

“-I’ll take care of it.” Dane said gravely, leaving no doubt as to his meaning.

Dagen gave a nod, and led the way into the unassuming repository. Wooden crates, cartons, and glass bottles of varying sizes were all stacked in tidy rows, each marked with a splash of color depicting the shade of dye they contained. The Chainbreaker continued onward to the rear of the structure, while the ghoul hung back, taking in every surrounding exchange with a critical eye.

A few minutes later, Dagen returned, a light sheen of nervous sweat breaking out across his brow. “It’s done,” he said. “The cart is being loaded now.”

The better part of an hour passed, then Dane was keeping stride beside a thoughtfully weighted wagon, laden with crates and barrels all marked as sweet liquors.

They spoke not a word as they made their way back to the harbor, tension rolling off of Dagen in palpable waves. The assassin was grateful that _The Tessarion_ was close by; though the Chainbreaker was making a valiant effort to appear neutral, it was clear that it was just a matter of time before he buckled under the pressure of his perilous charade.

Their burden was shared once they reached the pier, and Dany’s sailors became temporary dockhands, each one handling his cargo with the respectful gravity it deserved as their captain watched from overhead. Dane made a number of strategic encirclements around the wharf as they loaded the hold, scouting for any sign of unwarranted observation or a suspicious excess of authority. Finding none, he made his way back up the ramp of _The Tessarion_ to consult with Daenerys.

“We’re clear,” the ghoul said, causing Dany to let out a quiet sigh of relief. “Just carry on as you have been, and Tyrosh will be leagues behind us by nightfall. Has Sera returned yet?”

“No,” Dany shook her head, “but it hasn’t been that long. I expect she’ll be back soon.”

“Good.” Dane smirked. “As much as I sit in awe of Lylah’s ability to make a meal out of damn near anything, even she can only do so much with that bloody hardtack.”

“I thought servants of the Many-Faced God were humble, thriving when life was at its most basic?”

“This servant of the Many-Faced God has spent too much time around exiled princesses and handmaidens who work magic with exotic spices. It’s left me shamefully base and corrupted.”

“So tragic,” Dany said innocently. “They ought to be ashamed of themselves, tainting such a pure and modest soul.”

Dane pulled off his obnoxious hat, and bowed his head in mocking reverence. “As the gods forgive, so too shall I.”

Dany smiled then, warm and genuine, and for that one, shining moment, the assassin’s world stood still.

Like all good things, it ended far too quickly.

“You’ll be back by sundown, then?” Dany asked, sober once more.

“At the latest. You have my word.” Dane promised, the sealed missive in his pocket suddenly as heavy as a stone. “Use Rasco as a lookout while I’m gone. He was a pickpocket once; he’s quite skilled at spotting guards.”

“I will.” The captain was quiet for a moment. Then: “whatever it is that you’re doing – be careful.”

Dane nodded in response, then headed down the gangplank, allowing himself to be swallowed up by the sea of people crowding the dockside market.

Caution made him take the long way around to his destination, even though time was of the essence. He walked a slow, elliptical loop around the eastern side of the Bleeding Tower, making false turns to deter anyone who may have been following him, all while taking careful measure of the tall stone dungeon he’d been ordered to infiltrate.

It was an ominous thing, said to be named for the gruesome mortar holding its bricks together, mixed with the blood of condemned criminals and defiant slaves for over a decade during its construction. There was only one entrance he could find, a rusting steel door that was likely to be as thick as Dane was wide, with two of the Archon’s own elite guards posted on either side of it. Arrowslits were cut into the rock at clever defensive angles, and served as the only source of fresh air and natural light the tower could receive.

There would be no breaking into that prison. Dane was going to have to get himself in the old fashioned way – by being arrested.

Assaulting a guard would be sufficient.

Preparing to play a jealous lover with an unfortunate case of mistaken identity, the ghoul sized up the Archon’s men, selecting the one who looked the most like to be a cad. He cracked his knuckles and took a deep breath, and started toward his target.

The sharp sound of an open palm striking skin stopped him in his tracks.

Behind him, at the far end of a narrow alley leading to the thoroughfare, was a man gripping the collar of a young boy while an even smaller girl with tumbling autumn hair began to cry.

For a surreal instant, No One wondered if the little girl had blue eyes.

Feet moving of their own accord, Dane started to push through the milling, apathetic mob, towards the quarrelling trio. As he drew closer, he saw a handprint on the boy’s cheek, stark and angry against his pale skin. The large man knelt down and started to shake him, hissing some form of chastisement through his clenched teeth.

_I need to get into the Bleeding Tower_ , a quiet voice whispered inside of No One.

“Ho there,” Dane called out in the native bastardized Valyrian , attracting the volatile Tyroshi’s attention. “Might I have a word?”

“Just turn back around and head on your way,” the man warned, rising to his feet again.

_There’s no time for this_ , the voice cautioned.

“Just a moment of your time. I’ll make it worth your while,” the ghoul said, tossing the brute a coin.

A meaty hand snatched the offering mid-air. “I’m listening,” he snapped.

_You can’t afford this distraction. You were given a mission. Valar dohaeris._

“I can’t help but notice the fine collars those two are wearing,” Dane said, tilting his head toward the two children. “I need a few pairs of small hands to work some of my more compact looms. Would you consider selling them to me?”

“Sorry,” the lout shook his head. “These two have already been bought an’ paid for. They’re being delivered to the Archon himself.” There was a lewd twist to his lips as he spoke, revealing just what sort of purpose they’d be serving at the hands of their reigning master.

_The world is a broken, cruel place. You know that. Arya Stark had to learn the hard way. She tried to fix pieces of it, once – remember how well all of that turned out?_

“Are you sure I can’t change your mind?” Dane asked. “I may not be the Archon, but I assure you that I have pockets just as deep.” The lie flowed smooth as honey from his lips.

“I said they’re not for sale,” the man growled, what little patience he’d shown quickly dissipating.

_Valar dohaeris, ghoul. The Wharf King is relying on you._

No One looked down at the boy, wide-eyed despite the bold front he was trying to hide behind.

**_Valar dohaeris_ ** _. You gave Dany your word you’d be finished by sundown._

“I see,” Dane said with a sigh and a tip of his hat. “Well, that’s a right shame, then. I guess I’ll be on my way.”

The brute’s tensed posture relaxed slightly as their exchange ended.

_Remember who you are. No One._

Grey eyes fell on the little girl, and met with deep pools of blue.

And somewhere within No One a wolf howled, longer and louder than any desperate whisper.

Quick as a snake, a scarred left hand thrust a dagger beneath the taller man’s chin, twisting viciously before he could make a sound. Arms strengthened by years of carrying corpses eased the brute silently to the ground, as blood flooded his windpipe.

It was only when Dane pulled the dagger and wiped his bloodied hands on the lout’s shirt that he noticed the epaulet on his shoulder, and the sigil embroidered on it.

It was the same emblem that marked the Archon’s elite guards.

Dane felt his heart start to hammer in his chest. This was not just some sleazy nobody that would be overlooked. This was a kill that would be noticed, and demand retribution.

They all needed to leave Tyrosh. _Now._

The assassin turned and took a knee in front of the two stunned children, praying to any god that would listen that they wouldn’t cry out or scream. “I’m not going to hurt you,” the ghoul assured them, speaking in a low, soothing tone. “Your father was going to give you to a man who would have. I needed to stop him. Do you understand?”

Anger flashed in the boy’s eyes then, and he stepped forward and kicked the still-warm body in the ribs. “He wasn’t my father,” he spat bitterly, “he just took us after our mother died.”

“So your mother is dead… do you have any other family here? Anyone I can bring you to?”

The boy looked away, sullen, and shook his head.

_Seven bloody hells. What have I done?_

Dane reached out, and deftly cut the collars off of the children’s necks. “Then you have two choices. You either stay, and try to make it on your own here, or you come with me to Braavos, and we’ll find someone to take care of you there.”

The two siblings looked at each other, considering each of the disconcerting options set before them.

“But whatever it is you decide,” Dane pressed, “make it fast.”

A little hand gripped Dane’s sleeve as the girl stood beside the killer.

“Will we be slaves in Braavos?” the boy asked warily.

“No. There are no slaves in Braavos.”

Hesitant, the boy joined his sister, dark eyes darting back to the growing puddle of blood that was starting to surround the corpse he’d assaulted. Dane lifted the little girl up on to his narrow shoulders, bidding her to hang tight, then took the boy by the hand. He led the two out of the alley before lawful eyes had a chance to settle on them, and wound his way back to the harbor, keeping his expression placid and his pace casual as he strode up the gangplank of _The Tessarion_.

Violet eyes widened as Dany met them at the top, her confusion evident. “Is this what you had to-”

“No,” the ghoul said tersely, cutting the silver captain off before she could say another word. “Change in plans. We need to get the hell out of Tyrosh, _right now_.”


	25. Unfinished Business - Author's Note

Dear Readers,

First off, I want to say thank you all very much for all of the encouragement and support you’ve given me throughout the process of writing this fic. Sure, there are a few who have been disappointed in this, expecting something quite different after reading Allegiance, but that is a small minority – most of you are really the best audience I could have hoped for. And I very much respect the time and interest you have invested in this writing, which is why I am posting this note rather than just leaving the fic abandoned and hanging.

Over the last week, a lot has changed in my RL circumstances. Not bad changes by any means, but changes that are forcing me to rethink priorities and make some major life adjustments. One is a job promotion, which, while financially rewarding, also comes paired with a **massive** time commitment. I’ve had a chance to experience this first hand over the last few days, and it is the primary reason I am officially discontinuing Dany by the Docks.

DbtD was actually a fic planned and outlined with a massive scope – that was going to become much more apparent in the upcoming chapters. It was hugely ambitious, and was going to cover a lot of ground that would have either thrilled or horrified readers. For those who are curious or would like some measure of closure, I will summarize a few key points letting you know what was planned, and how it was actually going to end.

 

If you’d rather not know, please take this opportunity to stop reading.

 

First, a few immediate answers:

  1. Arya’s ‘botched’ _valar dohaeris_ -  
This was going to result in a Tyroshi war galley, armed with scorpions and spitfires, going after The Tessarion. Consequently, under the cover of night, a very badass and efficient Arya was going to actually infiltrate that war galley and kill everyone aboard, one by one, then set the entire ship on fire. Because no, she was _not_ returning to her Stark identity or turning into a ‘care bear’ – but just like the house she serves in, she is dichotomous. She has great kindness and decency in some circumstances, but on the flip side, she’s also still a remorseless, cold-blooded murderer. Her mental state is complicated at times, with blurred lines. This whole incident was meant to very clearly illustrate that.   
  
As for the fact she did not deliver the missive for the Wharf King – he’s a bit of a wildcard character, isn’t he? He was never going to tell the Kindly Man about it. Arya’s standing with the HoBaW was going to remain intact. Why would the WK do that? Well, he’s got his own agenda.   

  2. The wolves of Summerhall-  
Some of you may have already guessed, but Nymeria and her legions were in fact going to decimate the Dornish soldiers led up north by Viserys. Viserys’ death was going to be quite brutal, told from his POV as Nymeria (warged by Arya) literally tore him apart. I wanted a sufficiently vicious death for him, to make up for the fact we do not get the epic ‘Gold Crown’ in this ‘verse. I like to think this would have made up for that.   




 

Now, not so immediate answers, and much larger spoilers. Again, if you don’t really want to know – stop reading.

 

Here’s the twist-

Dany by the Docks was actually the first ‘book’ in a two book series called  ‘Valyria Revived’. This first fic was going to end with two major events: The Tessarion, loaded with Tyrion, Danika, and many others, while forced into a desperate run from heavily armed Volantene slaver ships, was going to brave the cursed waters and take refuge in the ruins of Valyria. At the same time, the Wall was going to be breached, and the Wights were going to march across Westeros.

Yes, I was, in fact, going to ‘go there’ and let Westeros fall under another Long Night.

The only survivors were going to be Bran & Co, in the northern cave, the Direwolves, which he was going to summon there before it was too late, and anyone on an island (Tarth, Iron Islands, Dragonstone, Estermont, etc). The rest, from the North to Dorne, were going to be overrun.

So why did I spend so much time on the Westerosi politics? Why did I bother to put so much thought into how those pieces were moving if I was just going to wipe out Westeros?

It’s a case of art reflecting life. We all live until we die – however that may be. And most of the time, we don’t see death coming. It hits while we’re busy with other things. To do it any other way would have cheapened the entire event.

The second book was going to pick up a few months after the first left off, and cover, obviously, the revival of Valyria. The truth behind the Doom, the healing of the land, the old treasures and technologies/magic found there, and making it a habitable kingdom once more. Old Valyria enslaved the world; New Valyria under Dany’s rule was going to free it. Dany would have an heir already, a girl, also Stormborn because it’s kinda poetic and I liked that idea. For those who felt that was a sore point in this fic, it did have purpose, as everything laid out did - I did not want the ‘heir issue’ to become a problem later on. And yes, when you are writing about a monarch in a world like ASOIAF, that is a very important component, like it or not.

Dany’s one remaining dragon egg was going to hatch in the fires of Old Valyria, and once Rhaegal had grown, Dany would take him and a large contingent of her new army, all armed with Valyrian Steel (which I intended to revive along with Valyria) and decimate the Wights and Others that had taken over Westeros, thawing the land and setting it right for those who may want to return to it (Tyrion and his wife and children – yes, I wanted to give the poor guy a bit of a happy ending – would in fact return, and reclaim Casterly Rock and the Westerlands). I know that keeping only one dragon egg for the ‘Mother of Dragons’ was a point of contention for some readers as well – I want to explain that decision. Clearly, I did need Dany to have a major source of funding to start her voyaging. And yes, I could have used _some other_ plot device to grant her that. But, because this is an AU and so much changed, I had to consider what would make sense narratively in the long run. If I had kept Drogon and Viserion, I would have had to _rename_ them. Dany doesn’t know Drogo here, and she sure as hell wouldn’t feel inclined to name anything after Viserys in this ‘verse. I believe that would have been too strange to read; those dragons are iconic and their names are a big part of that. So at the end of the day, I really only _needed_ her to have _one_ dragon, and I kept the one that could still bear a name that would have positive meaning for her.

As for Arya, and what would come after her three year _valar dohaeris_ debt – despite finding happiness with Dany (and eventually having her true identity revealed by Tyrion), she _was_ going to return to Braavos after the three years was up. The Kindly Man would have perished, by this point, and the Wharf King was in fact going to be running the HoBaW.

And he’d be in need of a ‘procurer of insights’ to place in New Valyria.

So yes, Arya and Dany would have had a happy ending too – both changing each other for the better, but not losing themselves along the way, either. For better or worse.

 

Those are the broad strokes.

So for those who are disappointed, who would have enjoyed reading this all play out, know that I am right there with you. I can’t convey how much time and effort I put into planning every detail of this. I started mapping all of this out about halfway through writing Allegiance, intending to put every lesson I’d learned penning that fic to good use.

But life happens, I guess.

I am not going to give up writing entirely. My other works will remain open, and I will update them as I find time.

For now, I wish you all fair winds and calm waters.

-Starky


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